When the pigeons run, from a tree losing its roots, or two arms, and take back the place where they grew up. The top of any building from the 20’s, this case the story mills, the windows are still broken. I ask myself “could someone live up there with the birds, the fish bones of Bozeman creek, the filth of whatever is left." Rotted bed springs that had taken the Lewis and Clark trail, inch to miles to other states and years across rivers and mountains to small cabins, or stacking in asbestos basements of working mans houses. The blankets that winter makes with ease on its own time, sticking, and standing out as such a raw range of emotions. Sometimes I have a panic-attack late at night when I know there is a storm-warning on weather.com, and the snow is just really pushing down the throat of Bozeman. How I feel when I get cut in line, how childish I act, pushing and shoving and talking about my youth. Nostalgia, that is so important, yet so distant and meaningless to those around me.  The cell phone rings at seven in the morning, or maybe even earlier, and I don’t answer it.