|
Listen … can you hear the crunching and snapping
of decaying leaves and dried out old twigs,
as the ancient buck, with a twelve-point rack,
rubs the bark of the stately oak tree in the creek bed below?
Sniff the cool spring air high above the western
leaning mountains … do you catch the whiff of
the musky smell of hidden elk bedded down in
the shadows as dawn snatches darkness’s cloak
off the rangy untouched forest?
Feel the rush of damp heavy fog swirling
and twisting with the current of last winters
hard snow, melted and giving over to the
need to return to the sea.
Spilling over fall after fall
flowing to the great waters, well beyond the
fertile valley floor, dotted with acres of
thirsty fields being made ready for this year’s
corn, wheat, apples, and peaches.
A rush of gastric juices fills my mouth as
I reach down and pluck a tender
sprout of a daylily seen turning its flowering
buds toward the eastern sunrise,
while slowly, I chew on the sweet morsel
of this native plant.
My senses have awoken once again.
As I am reminded of the sure expanse
of my hidden rangeland that remains
largely unfettered, I smile and nod.
| 
