No butts or beer cans
                    behind the gate
                    behind the lock
                    behind the sign
beyond what you can see—
it is not perfect private property,
                    nor always.

A plane lands in the pasture
                    because it can
                    Sunday morning
                    playing early
                    while I’m working—
                    leaves tracks
                    in the dew.

I know their faces now,
                    say their names
                    hauling cattle,
                    crawling up and down
                    the mountain—
                    slow low range,
                    four wheel drive:

                    Brewer’s Lupine,
                    Pipe Stem Clematis,
                    in new places.
                    Pale Owl’s Clover
                    along the dirt road—
                    cold, dry year.

I am relieved, pleased
                    to see them return
                    despite the weather
                    despite the cattle
                    despite us

feeding weeds and grass to people.

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