by E. A. Greenwell
I remember
The first mountain I saw
When I drove west
I left everything
What was there before
Wasn’t there now
Except for my passenger
This was emptiness
Her gesture
And I followed her finger
Out the window
The consistency of fog
With fine edges
Like a white dress
What wasn’t there before
Was there now
Trees
Where trees ended
Snow
Where snow began
Clouds
Where clouds landed
The radio looped
Through half-broke static
Like hundreds of brushes
Brushing paint around
What was there before
Was there now
As when a stranger says
Remember me
Recipient of Writing in the Wild and Centrum Writers’ Conference fellowships from the University of Idaho, E. A. Greenwell was the 2016-2017 PEN/Margery Davis Boyden Wilderness Writing Resident. His work has appeared in Boston Review, Terrain.org, Moss, and is forthcoming from Poet Lore and Common Ground Review. He lives in Eastern Oregon, where he works with tribes, NGOs, government entities, and private landowners to conserve land.