zoey has the children, the little ones,

gathering sweetgrass for bedding

and weaving, the older girls are with hattie,

the boys with samuel--the sky says snow. 

high above, on the bluff, the encampment 

is taking shape--horses hobbled and grazing,

clover's tail wagging, exploring—

amos harvest fallen trees

from summer storms for fuel,

all, as time allows unloading wagons,

setting caravans for best vantage,

making camp, winter camp--

water, pasture, a natural ampitheater

to keep the sheep nearby, and so comes

the end of one year on the eve of a new one,

and the river speaks and the wind replies

and a few wintering vultures circle

and a hawk cries and the first flakes fall.