Letters to Julia

Dearest Julia,             

 

​

These last days of travel, our wagons shadow

the river. Steelhead and salmon broadcast

silvery news of our progress. When we rest, 

we count stars.

 

Night's unfolding is endless, composed

of radiance, a roll of astral sheet music unfurled

between opposing horizons. We sleep back-to-back

with the dogs — keeping them from the coyotes 

yipping their names. In the wind, a warning 

of wolves. One long-eared owl replies to our prayers.

 

Bunchgrass belly-deep to the horses escorts

the wayfaring river. Yellow pine, aspen, red-twig

dogwood, willow, cottonwood. Eagles note our arrival— 

their heads and tails feathered with snow; mallards,

river otters, king-fishers. There seems fish enough 

for all. 

 

Where the voices of two rivers unite: an encampment,

each teepee sided with bulrush and yellowed canvas 

sails. Racks of drying fish, bitterroot.  Ponies staked together 

stamp their hooves against the dust. Plaited baskets bulge 

with roots of wild carrot and onion. Dogs attend each of us

with wary eyes.

 

Steadfast snow on sentinel peaks endure, proof 

of the cartographer's glacial hand. Wind so keen,

we nearly weep. 

          

 

Your Loving Sister, 

Katharine