I.The first night we spend together is ina tent at Big Bend in two blue sleeping bags, my first time backcountry camping. We watch each other sweat and sleep and beginhiking again. Here, in the ChihuahuanDesert, there is tall grass and pricklypear. Soon, he will leave for his first training,bivouacking under the Californinan stars in summer. When we tire, we findplaces to rest beside honey mesquiteand creosote. On a cliff, we take inthe contours below, where mountain meets sky,blue and more blue until we can’t tell thedifference. I turn and kiss his dirty chin.
II. One night we drive through the downtown square, wherethe stoplights spill red light onto the roads and make the buildings glow. He speaks in prose—we’ve just left the movies and the night airis pouring into the car, the stars nearenough to touch through the rolled-down windows,and when we stop, he asks about the mostbeautiful thing I’ve seen, and I anwersomething about New York winter at night,although I’m thinking that this, right here, seems so beautiful, too. He looks at me and smiles. In the glow, he says I remind him of mornings in Colorado, the way the sun casts red light on the mountains.
III.The morning after my wedding dress dropsto my feet, we fly northwest and stay ina cabin perched over the Big ThompsonRiver. Douglas firs and meadow and rockand white tundra become our new bedrock,though they’ve always shaped his summers. I amaglow in this June air. I follow himthrough forest trails and fields of snow. He stopsto show me the glimmer of aspen leaves. In the fall, we will move from the world weknow, to the east coast and the sea. Underthe soil, he tells me, each white-barked treeconnects at the roots. Everything here singsas one, and we are awash with wonder.
