This is not a poem

Missoula in the summer is dirt under your feet
And between your toes
It is cold nights
And hot days
It is learning to walk slow
Learning to talk slow
Again
It is remembering how to be still
It is cheap drinks and expensive gas
It is night air
That smells like water, and earth and trees and stars and decay
And day air that smells like dust and berrys and a little bit of death
It is pine needles
And the sound of wind
(you never hear the wind in new york)
It is dawn breaking and birds talking so loudly you actally think they are human voices
It is the sound of water
That sounds like wind
It is seeing all the stars in the sky
It is people who know everything about me
Without knowing me
(Where in New York people know me
Without knowing a thing about me)
It is buying fresh produce on Saturday mornings, where I know the garden it came from
It is buying meat where I know what pasture it grazed in
It is meth addicts and drifters sleeping by the river
It is explosions of fireworks lighting hills on fire
It is bad songs on the radio
It is driving home as the sun rises with the windows rolled down
And even though I try to make it so
It is never profound