by William Stafford

    We were alone one night on a long

    road in Montana. This was in winter， a big

    night， far to the stars. We had hitched，

    my wife and I， and left our ride at

    a crossing to go on. Tired and cold but

    brave—we trudged along. This， we said，

    was our life， watched over， allowed to go

    where we wanted. We said we'd come back some time

    when we got rich. We'd leave the others and find

    a night like this， whatever we had to give，

    and no matter how far， to be so happy again