Lonely nights I walk to the old elevator that used to hold Montana grain: beams rusted, train tracks ripped out, a patchwork of missing roof panels framing perfect squares of starlight: an ambition pursued for eighty years and eighty years only. I think of aliens puzzled by this failure long after we’re gone. How fickle the human will seem. How slapdash. How make-do. And as they tour the world’s ruins, who’d blame them for assuming we lived our lives alongside other species of us? How else to forgive the dissonance between the vision that built Venice, the vision that built Butte?