Land

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