Dark at seven thirty now. Hot tub feels more than ninty-five degrees. The water buoys me. Steam swirls across the surface. Lean my head against the cedar rim. North is uphill. There are three lights then the darkness of the forest. The Big Dipper sags across the horizon. Straight up, darkness is coated by the Milky Way. High, over to the right, headlights, then they disappear. Coming down from the mountain. In and out, thin shouldered staggering height of pines. Last week it was us coming home from cutting wood. Wood in the bed. Three dogs in the back seat. In the forest we could see our breath. Maybe we have enough for the winter now but all day I stoked this hot tub stove just to sit in the heavy, hot water to watch these head lights spark back and forth out of the evergreens and wind their way down the open slopes so steep your heart will catch. Finally tires hit the nearest cattle guard, the metalic clang. This is where we laid the two dead goat babies last spring. Like a sinking stone. But right now, in front of me this night, on top the first two set of slopes a light where there is never a light. I did not tell my son this morning on the phone, the gunshot that woke me up. I told my daughter. This morning I wore my blue pajamas down to the barn and Tony's big shoes because he's gone all week and the black dogs danced rings around me. I stopped a minute. Stood in the stall door, the weak sun, while thoroughbreds chew their oats and barley, beau's dribbling out the corners of his mouth, Kansas licking up every grain. Another gunshot. Deer running along the open spaces, the dry, white grass, below. Two deer going one way, switching back another way, not knowing. You can come this way, come this way to the creek I whisper. I wonder if they are near by as I shift in the hot tub water and the soles of my feet let loose. My toes are free and I listen to the creek. There is a deep sound besides the steady rush of water. There is the deeper gurgle and in my mind's eye I can see where the water widens a little pool then passing through the willow brush. This moment and the next, the creek is the only single sound. I said I would not build near this creek. Over there where there are rocks and nothing green grows except the Bitter Brush and the Sage, maybe some cheat greass. Keep this the way it is. But the witcher found well water here. The septic on this side. At least the house is tiny, yellow light in the windows, the string of blue Christmas bulbs outlining the porch and the barn holds its own against the sky. I'd like to try the bigger bulbs in red, orange and green. I told you that and you wondered how we'd climb up to the peak. Well, it would not be you Tony, it will be me that does the climbing. But right now, dark night, my first hot tub up here alone.