Santa
Fe
National
Forest,
New
Mexico. How
Dear
to
me
the
Hour
when
daylight
dies…
this
turn
of
phrase
comes
to
me
as
I
am
skiing
through
the
New
Mexico
wilderness
an
hour
before
sunset.
Skiing
for
the
first
time
in
years,
I
have
to
tell
my
muscles:
adduct,
abduct,
yield.
Occasionally,
my
bones
tell
me
to
fall.
My
feet
are
snugly
fitted
into
boots
made
for
skiing.
I
am
resting
on
my
lasts
as
I
ski
upward
and
into
the
sinking
sun. The
experience
of
moving
through
a
foreign
land
with
these
foreign
objects
strapped
to
my
feet
keeps
me
alert.
I
look
up
from
the
snow
and
see
the
trees.
Can
I
name
them?
I
remember
another
line
from
a
Goat
Island
performance,
“a
carpenter’s
hands
can
eat
a
whole
sandwich,”
and
I
remember
Bryan
Saner
proceeding
to
list
all
the
varieties
of
wood
that
he
has
worked. I
infrequently
recall
the
name
of
a
particular
tree,
and
so
rarely
as
to
be
a
delicacy
do
I
recall
an
obscure
Latin
name,
a
Quercus
or
Phagus.
I
enjoy
this
moment
when
all
is
quiet,
until
the
occasional,
other
voice
that
inhabits
this
forest,
that
of
the
crows,
provides
an
outlet
for
my
most
unnamable
thoughts. I
turn
my
back
on
the
twilight
and
head
down
the
canyon.
At
the
end
of
the
trail,
in
a
snowed
out
campsite,
there
is
a
payphone.
I
enjoy
this
technological
hand
reaching
out
into
the
silent
forest,
seeking
one
who
has
come
from
nowhere
and
wishes
to
share
his
story.
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