in the quiet solitude

of her caravan

zoey burrows deeply into her bedding

pulling her quilt up to her chin

the frosty mountain air

nipping

as is its wont   at her nose

sunrise

hours off   her day begins now   or

soon   as soon as she summons the will

to throw back the quilt

for the moment   thoughts of the day ahead   

and   predictably

of days past   of samuel

~

provisions packed   thelonious saddled

clover yipping

dancing circles in tail-wagging anticipation

of another day among the sheep

zoey mounts

holding the rifle in her right hand as she does

then laying it across her lap   a flick of the reins   

three setting off

across the meadow   sky just lightening   trace of snow 

in the lee of rocky outcroppings   

air frigid

her demeanor purposeful   content   

this is where she wants to be

wanting for nothing   missing no one

~

inevitable crack-pow of rifle-shot

echoes 

across the mountainside

sheep may safely graze   but only

with assistance

it is   after all   a business   coyotes are bad business

afterward the quiet is profound

though

is it ever truly quiet

breezes   sheep sounds   her own 

creaking saddle

thelonious' huffing   clover's bark   hawk's cry

more like a distant recital

sans voice