Powderhorn.
Wake up to the sound of grosbeaks,
mountain water, horses stirring. The sun's
not quite up yet, and the fir needles
haven't quite come up out of the dark.
The boots are wet when you put them on, and
the tall meadow grass goes soaking through your jeans.
It's cold up here, looking way out down on
sunburnt sage. There's birdsong slowly rising
with the day, squirrel chatter, on last star
glowing out south and east. Stay quite a moment,
walk up slowly to the horses. One by one
they are hobbled and let go, the line
taken down, and you walk back toward camp
through the knee-deep nightsoaked grass. The sun now
is almost risen; the fireweed is beginning
to glow.
-Lee Farese
