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I learned how to shoot a gun before I learned how to color outside the lines.

That’s not a good example: I’m still learning.

I learned to look to inanimate objects for guidance:

Mountains are west

The river runs north

Tell me, sister tree, where are we going?

I learned how not to sing along to the radio

if the person in the passenger seat is a musician.

Unless it’s Hey Jude.

Or Dear Chicago.

In which case your voice can be forgiven

But not knowing the words can’t.

I learned that when you’re on a mountain when the sun rises there is no excuse for sleeping through it

Picking your way,

my way,

our way

up the trail winding around until trees fall away and nothing stands between us and the frozen light

except a small slice of oxygen that leaves us hungry for more

and seven layers of non-cotton

I learned that salmon flies hatch

At the time when the light is no longer frozen

But isn’t quite oppressive

And that if you sit still enough they form the only layer you need

I learned not to run when I see a black bear

Stop

Listen to her shuffle

Watch her

Learn to live

I learned that we are all just stonefly larva

Picking up pretty rocks

Lending them saliva

And pulling a mosaic around ourselves