Five pound bag of carrots in hand, we set out fresh,
made a morning of it.
Taking our care, stepping tenderly, even on hay,
looking out for dung and sleeping cats.
Equine smells, thick and leathered,
unswept damp corners
buckets, brushes
horse shoes and tack of all sorts,

The slant of sun
on the back of the barn,
the history of a family
three generations and counting
with echoes of four and five.

Other buildings torn down,
replaced for greater efficiency,
the red barn remains

Walk across winterbit fields
down to the teeming swamp
every step drops, deeper
and deeper into waiting fens

bogs, and marshes. Sepia water’s
rising earthy tang. Hear calls of 
tree frogs piercing bullfrog basso. 
Swamplove guides my feet. 

Somewhere South and a wee bit West
blood replenishes my hungry heart. 
Because Colorado keeps it beating. 

A roaring river drowns out 
whispers of who walked these lands before me.
Before my father. 
And my father’s father. 

It was the wind.
It was the wind all day and all night too.

We were edgy.
It was the wind making us edgy.  Edgier

than usual. More restless 
than usual.  No one 

could sleep waiting 
for whatever the wind would bring.

There is nothing here
that I need.
It is all
someplace else.
I need to find the place
where Morals are buried,
seek out
the road to Ethics

The geese seemed flat
against the morning light
as if to be black cut-outs
in the rising sun and the
reflecting ripples
of the open water.
They preened and fluffed.
When ready,