age and altitude

have made it difficult for amos to tend the flock

now zoey rides the old bay, thelonius

to the ridgetop

rifle across her lap, as amos had taught her

clover trotting along beside

reaching the meadow she scans the rocky outcroppings

and hidden valleys, counting sheep

watching for coyotes while clover tirelessly

brings the strays back to the flock

come evening, in her caravan, a fire in the woodstove

she cooks something simple

it is quiet, but for the wind, for the occasional bleat

for the occasional coyote, hawk or raven

~

dawn, a chill morning and the summer meadow

is beautiful

alpine wildflowers beyond counting, sky so blue

clouds so white

later, the rumble and flash of an afternoon thunderstorm

on a distant ridge

the solitude is intense 

thoughts swirl around the question of why

the western ridgetop cuts daylight short

evenings are violet-skied

stars dazzle at night

constellations tell their oft-told tales

and with dawn, after dreams are recalled or forgotten

she begins again