Little tent village.
How many breakfasts cooking?
A buffalo waits outside the Men’s room.
Hands, chapped and cold,
that shaped wet sand into castles,
cradled a hummingbird until it flew.
Cooking dinner in the dark.
Two lost spoons and a butter knife.
I laid my words on the picnic table,
Sorted them like index cards.
Autobiography of an ox-bow river.
Thirty-six degrees, bundled
In the back seat, I.V. dripping.
An osprey hovers over the Madison.
Bubbling paint pots
Spots of rain
Chalky pink and lonesome
Six elk bedded in orange meadow grass.
I’ve grown tired of the cold, and hats.