Open Range after the Death of a Friend from a Drug Overdose
The September sun breaks over the rim
of the Breccia Cliffs to crack the night.
Frosted glass clover shatters
beneath my boots, echoes
off a northern stand of lodgepole pine.
Sharp smells of woodsmoke and salt block
hang like slivers of ice on the air
thaw in my raw throat.
I taste salt, close my lips
as warm air in my lungs collides with cold.
The huge gray corpse of a jack pine
leans toward the cabin.
The corral looks lonely and frozen
lost in remembering
the heavy suck of hooves
in the muck of yesterday afternoon.
Horses hide in the far
corner of the pasture, heads low,
cold noses touching.
Beyond them, Poison Bench lies
like an innocent dog at the feet
of cliffs where cattle die young
gorging themselves on sweet purple larkspur.
