In these seconds
we sit and think that we know. Thinking the crisp green would not
be laced with snow, or that the flakes floating so slowly down that
they seemed to hover, rethinking, inclining upward against the red
shingles, would not be lanced by the reclining sun, the whole stratus
afternoon uplifted, the shrouded valley, the glistening asphalt, the
cold fat snow smacking my face, would not be lit by the maw in the
west – a foolish photoshop of two different seasons, that is today.
We have been time traveling, here in Missoula. Like the darkness
before the movie begins, the addled seasons catch us between what
we know and what we anticipate – between what is now out of our
hands and what we continue to dream we can control. To understand is
to control, and both are what tomorrow means to us. In the future
that awaits us, in the sun or snow that hits our face. But in the
darkness we realize all we are as mad scientists trespassing through
time is not as we thought – all we sought in the film is not what
we learned, and now the film, too, is gone. Each glance out the
window is a different day.
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