fraternal Santa Fe line locomotive twins with a-thousand-and-one cars each call mournfully to each other with their C minor seventh horns, like the last two musicians on stage at that old piano bar El Chapultapec (closed permanently, I'm afraid) on a sunday night, languid and pensive as they humbly toe melodies and countermelodies back and forth to each other without eye contact, thoughtful nods and stretched fingers and slow tapping feet.

the queen city of the plains cools some in september. you ought to tug that too-big L.L.Bean cableknit over your head and hold the clean-after-rain air deep enough in your chest that you can feel the Atlas arms of your diaphragm outstretched beneath your lungs. Denver might try to convince you of her big citydom with those big glass towers and those prefab public markets and shuttered jazz bars and luxury 1-and-2-bedroom apartments, but you don’t have to be fooled: she’s got a heart of Idaho Springs gold and there’s not yet so many bright lights down here that you can’t still see the stars.