A curtain bellying like a pregnant cloud, warm white light refracted through a tumbler of peat-smoked scotch— a scorcher of a day at cooling end, with stupendous berries to eat in lieu of supper, the scoffed pint box of blueberries chased by a half of cantaloupe & Maytag blue cheese spread across the remains of last night's baguette— a plural happiness—I feel encouraged for all within range—even the hang-gliding error that sent Jesus spiraling down to earth seems a commitment. Tomorrow we'll go to Alison's wedding, who at age 2 & 3/4 attended our wedding 26 years ago, her blond curls a mystery to be held up & photographed between her mother & father dark-haired Diane & Larry— in the riddle of our recessive genes once in a while something surprising waits for anybody out & about. Like hearing for the first time a blind preacher or waking in a Gros Vent campground south of Jenny Lake, the best happiness is always accidental,—& why not? I was going to say something about boundlessness back there (or was it getting gassed I meant?), but that isn't it exactly either. Tho it is pretty close. Close enough. And real. Real enough, & sure. God it felt good to heat water on a primus stove while yawning and to wash my face in cold Gros Vent & love Michaela.
Copyright © 2011 by David Rivard. Reprinted from Otherwise Elsewhere with the permission of Graywolf Press.