I think about you often, in the early summer evenings as the fog rolls in. The chill of spring lingers along the horizon, bringing through the window, the sweet piney smoke from the cottages along the ridge. There, in front of the dying hearth, I dream. About the wild northeastern forests and open skies, about trickling brooks and boggy shores and peeping frogs. But mostly, I dream about the mountains. And I remember standing next to you in the freezing rain, looking down upon the shadowy valley below and feeling my breath leave my body as the wind carried my voice over the high peaks and beyond where the clouds sleep. And you knew, in that cold, thin air, I lost myself.