She sets out for the coast, stops at the notch to admire the mountains, makes note that these are true mountains, not the soft green rounded foothills she calls home.
Left behind, he comes home from work to an empty house and thinks about her traveling through the mountains toward the sea she loves, driving along with all the windows fully open, waiting for that first whiff of salt air.
Two or three times before the sun goes down, he steps out onto the deck to count and recount the giant hay bales in the field below the house—the first cut is late this year—massive round bales still holding the last of their lively green sweetness, slowly fermenting into a mellower, slumbering gold.
Miles and miles and hours away, under a just-past-full moon, the road ceases to unfold before her and she sits, gazing out at water, satisfied, having moved the mountains to the sea.
Around midnight, before bed, he goes out on the deck and counts the bales one last time, the way a shepherd might count his sheep.
He stares out at the horizon, thinking how much the distant ridgelines remind him of waves.