I can't help but think about the sky
in Montana,
and the air,
the forests
of Idaho,
the rivers that run there:
all of those things that are so large.

It's no lie when they
call Montana "big sky country."

The stars there,
in that everywhere sky,
shine so that they hit your soul,
they seep shining in through your eyes
and your belly,
and melt you all up.
They melt you,
and mold you pure,
like a baptism through cold fire.

I saw the big dipper for the first time
ever, in the beginning of South Dakota.
And I felt quite small and big at the same time.
And I felt wide awake; and I had no need to speak.

I would like to always have this feeling:
this big earth sensation.

But even if I moved out there
to the wilds of Montana and hid in the woods,
the feeling would fade
as I wake up each morning and 
drive to work,
as I make money and pay bills.

This feeling is transitory.

Like everything in travel,
half of the beauty of 
this feeling
is that it only lasts one long, still moment
when all of your energy that is focused in constant motion
stops suddenly
with a sharp inhale:

and you accidentally breath in a star and lose youself