What I took to be desert bighorns running straight up the ridge making a sound like breaking plates didn’t turn out to be either of those things, & what I took to be fog shoplifting the top half of the mountain was really something more like the problem with trying to remember your childhood from pictures of your childhood. It was the blackened stump with arms fooling me on the hillside again, telling me to go buy a curtain I didn’t need at all, & it was the fire you must sometimes light on purpose & the swallow that repeated all powerful to them was the sun, & it was that sun still marching up the cliff like an army that made me wonder why the apples were smaller this year, and so quick. We used to take pictures of people taking pictures & call it memory. We used to call nostalgia an illness caused by swelling of the brain. The painter has been trying for days to get the color of the mountain just right, the yellowed skirts the agave wear in late July, other patches almost ashen against that face. One good cloud changes everything. The bighorn haven’t lived here for ninety years. I was thinking this might be a way to say someone once tried hard to water Bone Canyon & that there are worse things than the only pictures from your childhood having been taking while opening gifts.