On A River

The sun lazily sinks toward the horizon, the air smells of something simple and real - wood, leather, river water. Somewhere nearby, a chair creaks, and on my knees lies a guitar, tired from songs but content. There is no rush in these words, only quiet anticipation: a house by the water, chairs on the porch, a pair of gray hairs, and a world where sunsets are an official position and happiness is measured in spoonfuls of chili and sips of beer.

This is what a dream sounds like without pathos - warm, lived-in, with a hint of humor in the voice. It's as if someone took the future, didn't embellish it with gold, but simply added love, faith, and a little bit of Montana - for flavor.