Voices lift above the rhythmic drum beats
from Elko, Nevada—dear friends claimed
for over thirty years and seven hundred miles:
a ‘Cowboy Disneyland’, I declared having found
my tribe in ’89, Ian rising on the wind and Jack,
rambling from the Ashgrove, ever-ready
in my mind to fly the thin, clean air
over sawtoothed peaks of frosted snow
like sharp, white teeth gnawing at the sky—
at heaven, a high desert ascension between
here and there where nothing stays the same
but hugs, handshakes and easy camaraderie.
drycrikjournal 