I’ve heard stories I don’t remember
embellished into local myths
no longer true, no longer claimed
as I age, as memory fades
as it should from the far context
of most outdoor youths.
Oh, how we howled like a pack
of coyotes in these canyons—
louder yet in towns avoided now.
But a man learns not to dwell
on guilt, what can’t be helped
to please the righteous—
evolutions of imperfection
honed into an existence
we’ll soon live without.
drycrikjournal 
John, I like this poem quite a lot — the mutability of local legends, our fading connection with the present, and, especially, the inevitability of being “without”.
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Thank you, George, for your kind words.
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