Summer dawn, wild oats blond,
they wake from dreams beyond
ridgeline silhouettes and think
of me, or someone like me
with sweet alfalfa leaf – young cows
to be, their flesh fills, springs
pink around me and I am pleased.
They feel it as I move through
our congregation on this hillside.
The road below fills with pickups
towing toys, the purr of hopped-up
four-wheel drives, tents and trailers
like blood pumped into the mountains
where snowmelt leaks and tumbles
into treacherous streams, rivers
hungry for adventurous ignorance –
her breasts heave. These girls and I
have closed that other world away
and speak to the moment, study
one another’s movement. I dream
of them – and them of me.