Letter From Norman

March 23, 2004

As the moon lingers a moment over the bitteroots, before its descent into the invisible, my mind is filled with song. I find I am humming, softly, not to the music but something else. A place remembered — somewhere else. A field of grass where no one seemed to have been, except the deer. And the memory is strengthened by the feeling of you dancing in my awkward arms.

by Norman Maclean

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