NYU Black Renaissance Noire Fall 2013 - Page 102

By ROBERTA HILL Foothill Reverie in Missoula, Montana 100 Leaning on these rocks, cushions thrown From a giant’s broken armchair, I am the long wing of sky, mountains on the edge of my billowing clouds. Beneath me streets and houses stretch for mountain passes. Downwind, a hawk screams on thermals charging the air and I stay here with pine, surrendering to lichen texture, hard and steady as your back. I’m high enough to escape the siren’s wail rising from the stretch heading up to Lolo. I’m high enough to watch cars moving over three bridges. Sunlight on their windows glints, people inside buzzing along, busybodies, strong, resolute, moving still. I’m high. Nearest the mountain, campus buildings, sedated by afternoon summer sun, look made of homespun wool. I want to live here where the mountains rise one upon the other, pearl grey to deep blue green washed in haze. I want to believe the lessons of bugs clambering over the grey-green sage, moths flying on missions over skree and scrub pine, the ephemeral thermals, all the comic grasses shaking their lives out loud. BRN-FALL-2013.indb 100 9/13/13 12:48 AM