Later I will say

the hills conspired: crowds

of balsamroot and lupine

hindered my passage; my shoulders

bound by snow-thrift clouds.

Not one clock struck

the hour. I leaned

                             toward

the broadest yellow pine, the flags

of prayer, where a male grouse

stood sentry. The maple tree

sheltered the bird-bowl’s sheen—

a last offering. The distances before me

inscribed with raven wings.