A deer's passed almost silently among
The trees not thirty feet away from me.
I've come to where I planned to go:
The densely wooded mountains
Of Montana, and I'm satisfied, relieved
To have outlasted endless dreary
Grasslands, endless sun-wrecked
Mesas and arroyos, crappy towns
Awash with rednecks driving noisy
Pickup trucks. The middle of this
Continent is acid to one with a brain.
The mountains, on the other hand,
Are balm. I feel them healing now.
Alas, I know my mental health is
Doomed to go back to decaying
When I suffer what's between
Them and where I call home.