In defense of whatever happens next, the navy of flat-bottomed popcorn clouds steams over like they are floating down a river we're under. To the west, red cliffs, more pasture, the blue Medicine Bow with stretchmarked snowfields, quartzite faces like sunny bone. I'm worried about Lyle getting back from town with his oxygen, but then I see him through binoculars turn the Studebaker, antlike, off the county road and up the four-mile grade, so small down there that I want to imagine his hands on the wheel, still strong, his creased blue jeans and high-top shoes I know he wears to town. He turns off the road on a small knoll about halfway up and stops the truck, facing the mountains. He still looks small against so much space, but I can see his left arm and shoulder and the brim of his hat lowered as he lights a smoke and looks off toward the mountains, and small countries of light and dark rush across the prairie towards him and over him. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LITANY OF THE DARK PEOPLE by COUNTEE CULLEN MIDSUMMER BIRDS by ROBERT FROST THE BOOK OF STONES AND LILIES by AMY LOWELL BOYHOOD FRIENDS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TO BE LIKED BY YOU WOULD BE A CALAMITY by MARIANNE MOORE THE RUSSIAN ARMY GOES INTO BAKU by ALICIA SUSKIN OSTRIKER |