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That's what knocked ME out, he said, your beautiful, beautiful wetness. The river and trees too, in mute gradations, you need a different lens. A Mongolian kid named Bowler takes a skateboard into the ice, aqua then layers of shard above the layer that makes us lose our balance, my arm through B's as she tries to remember the words to the Nelly Furtado song. Bowler scrambles above me sending rocks raining---they're not real rocks, says B laterally to me ten feet along the cliffside, they just crumble off--she flags her arms when we cabooses fall behind under the fog on the way up to the ridge--black, grey, and blonde like the rolling hills on the ranch where I grew up--it's a difficult thing, I say, when he asks if I'll put it in my blog, what I can write and what I can't, what I have a right to say about others…she said, "I tried once to write family stories but you come upon painful internal stuff--fortunately the distant cousin had a tape recorder; they're more open with outsiders," The sun comes and goes, willows providing red, I wear only a sweater on the ridge. Now that you've been there, return in your mind. With the sweet fresh of the stillness and barrenness therein, follow the lateral: inhale the cottonwoods and while releasing don't let go, there is a difference. The German father sits with his hands in his daughter's lap. Walk slow across the ice, without traction and feeling the pocks and dips. Feeling the pulse between your legs at the rich click inaugurating a frozen copy of a moment perpetuating. The clouds will disperse.