rattlesnakes

you can smell the horses

when you get to this part of the river

the willows aren't the same here - you wouldn't recognize them

six gunshots echo through the mountains

I see a yellow pick up

there is a man known for shooting cay-oats when they howl

I confuse the reeds for rattlesnakes

I turn around nervously

there is something comforting about the sand sticking to my shoes

and the small trail i've carved out of snapped branches

the wild here is an ocean of it's own

the rocks are bent like chairs

the driftwood is weaker than my cracking wrist

thinner than telephone wire

12 more shots ring out from the gun range

and somewhere the sound of an elk in pain

makes it's way to the grange where

your congregation meets for bitter coffee.