You have been driving across the high plains throughout the night, consumed by a sudden longing to return, your quiet companion a waning moon descending in the West, a source that can tell you nothing of where your life has gone.   With some seventy miles to go the news reports fires along the Front Range, and in the smoky pre-dawn gloom, as the sun’s first light illuminates the distant alpine heights, a single antelope appears beside the highway, the lone witness to your homecoming. Dan Guenther