There is a gash in the sky.
Westward, a weather system
moving in. The wind has picked up:
rain or a dry thunderstorm. The sunset lilac
from fires in Idaho. A chopper cuts
the silence, a lazy sprinkler too.
On the highway, a cow moose patrols
her just-slain calf. Driving 70, I can still see
at my passing, but stays.
I have moved into the pioneer cabin by the river. Banging screen door,
the place smells of dust and tobacco. Cattle inspect then lean against
my car. A
sun-bleached skull of an animal. Last night the coyotes got to yipping
across the valley in stereo.
My bones have memorized the rattle of gate-crossing.
If I caved, I didn’t know. Saddled and resigned. Held
my breath the night a mountain lion took down
a doe before me. Amplified sounds of ripping,
no wailing. Silhouettes of ponderosa pines skirting
the pasture. Vanilla coming off the bark, still warm.