Half a mountain slipped away
to move the river south, left
alluvium of clay and granite rock—
a good spring in a steep draw
collecting stories at a pause
with brittle bones and rattlesnakes
for spice—half a century saved
to hunt and wander from the flats,
to ride to gather heifers with my father,
all the alliterative murmurs
that damned me and God
when the wind is almost right.
Half a mountain slipped away
to gather by myself, holding
highlights of the boy I used to be.
Weekly Photo Challenge: ‘Nostalgia’
