It takes a certain sadness to love your own responses to things. Some call this poetry, but I’m not certain about that. Just the other day I saw a bay of coots on Flathead Lake slowly swallowed by snow falling quiet as a pulse. The scene was so pure I thought I might weep. But there were others at the window beside me, others who might not know what to do with a man’s tears. I’ve found most don’t. Oh voices say they want tender men but you let tears start falling silent as snow and sphincters in the room tighten like fists. If you should doubt this, ask an honest man.