Good morning. The horses are ready. The trail
will take us past the final alpine fir
to women so rare they are found only above
the snow line. Even high altitude trout,
the California Golden, find them exciting.
Flowers bloom so colorful there the colors
demand a new spectrum, and wolves turned yellow
in that arid atmosphere howl like angels
every dawn. You have a question? The region
was discovered by pioneers who floated
their findings on stars down to the flats.
If you stay a week in that dry dispassionate air
your thoughts go dreamy. Girls you like best
drift in the sky to music. When they hover
close enough to touch the music gets loud.
Young, you loved those tunes. Old, you will love
those odd breaks in time when memory sings
in your groin and girls in pairs are replayed
fighting like cats for your love, on clouds
in the valleys below. You’ll ride those times
higher than song and magic arrow, and ride
the avalanche down to withering routine.
You were coward going in.
Nothing has changed. Alpine fir has all
but disappeared in our blinding progress.
The rest was infantile mouthing. I’m coward too.
The original settlers left no record but tears.
They wept on earth where it counts. They pointed
a vague hand west and we took it from there,
and here’s where we are. If I were strong
I’d call those horses out again. The real
is born in rant and the actor’s gesture.
Good morning. The horses are ready. The souls
of unique animals and girls above the moisture
wave hello when you come into view.