Exit Lowe’s and there they are, bluntly notching the horizon: thickset and muscular. It’s that squat solidity that tugs at my eyes and brings me to a standstill. It makes me want to be Cezanne in late life, off in a corner of the parking lot studying the hunched contours the cold’s exposed, slabbing pigments wintry as smoky quartz on canvas. Shoppers pushing their piled carts would barely notice me, such a fixture I’d become, cloudy days and sunny days, high on core geometries, forging a new way to see depth within the limits of my means. But I am myself, and stamping to unfreeze my feet, I recall the history of this place: the Catskills are the site of an ancient inland sea, the ferns along its shore once tall as trees. How deep, I wonder, where a frozen lake of asphalt now lets us walk? Cezanne, perched across from Mont Sainte-Victoire, knew the latest theories of earth’s great shifts— or so I’ve read: the true source, I like to believe, of his fever to nail the eternal in that mountain. Winter works a forever-kind-of-look on the Catskills which belies their transience. I could gaze at them all day. Drivers’ nudging patience with my distraction hints at sympathy as if they understand one can not always be thinking of batteries and rock salt, or where one parked one’s car.