Helena

The cottonwood leaves, like teenagers, can’t sleep. They rattle nervously and drop to the ground or simply hang in the breeze waiting for someone to blow through and lift them away.

Jupiter still lights the twilight with her constancy, bright against dark robed trees. The moon keeps low, almost hiding. I pause to take a photograph of the campfire. Behind me in the darkness, an elk skull sits in a tree, a memento mori placed by a previous visitor to this Forest Service cabin.
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