We might as well be rare birds
occupied off the road, a dwindling species
keeping to itself as the world speeds by.
Behind the wheel, that great invention,
it has all it needs now to save time
on the other end of its destination.
Pickup loads of toys stream upcanyon,
primal music thumping all the way
to places we don’t want to go after
watching the troops retreat at dusk,
limping home. It must be like a war
up there in the mud and snow.
We work around the fire, a fine discovery,
pulling irons and calves together,
stirring coals, retelling stories after
while the meat cooks, before we forget
our place in these mountains that
have shaped characters and rare birds.
drycrikjournal 