In nudging about this old fold of mountains, her small white car fitting her like a dress or a feather-trimmed cape, she can never determine whether her heart aches because they the mountains are in her, or because they are not. But ache is what she feels, a longing for something which is right before her. Their lines, these mountains, are a mysterious cadence by comparison with the flag-waving soar of young, western pinnacles. These quiet elders rise from the river in grace and chinese distance, grey blue pearl blue madder blue moving against an absent sky. She drives along nearby, monitoring the loom of them, taunted by how close, just there! and suppresses a spiraling desire to fly straight into them, Bells-Her-Cheeks, white car streaming about her, to become the painting, or return to the mound, a home after all.