Nate East

And so I wanted to rip all these longings out of me and just cry at his feet and ask why the cruelness of the granite hills hadn’t spoken to me loud enough, why a hundred years of train screeches and pit fires in the woods outside Olympia had passed me by faster than the sun in Bryce Canyon flees the creeping shadows, dashed like the two stags we ran after through the flickering pines who kept looking over their shoulders with black winking eyes like coyote spirits, and mostly what I needed to do now as the rivers lowered, the orange leaves fell thicker over the washes and deer paths and the granite cliffs pushed faster and higher up headlong into the sand-colored skies.