The Hell With Perfection — Freedom for Photography —

a river runs through it

dear ____, as the moon lingers a moment over the bitterroots, before its descent into the invisible, my mind is filled with song. i find i am humming softly; not to the music, but something else; some place else; a place remembered; a field of grass where no one seemed to have been; except a deer; and the memory is strengthened by the feeling of you, dancing in my awkward arms.

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