We move through clouds. I ask over and over are those clouds or is it smoke? Sometimes out loud. Mostly silent. Factory in between farms billowing smoke. We say we hope it's steam. Only heat and air and water. Nothing bad. I expect the worst too often. We drive up and through more slabs of heavy white air. Toward white peaks of mountain. I say I need to see something huge today, something glorious, so we drive west. On the road to the park where the mountains glimmer and stand ready to take anything, who cares how bad, the clouds burn off. We leave them behind. A herd of elk cross the very road we drive and I gasp at them, I say stop the car, here is the thing I've been waiting for. As if they are for me. This velvet and antler and limb. This gaze through us, into another place. I picture my hand on a body. As if I could get that close.