From a deck chair, I scan the low
meadow for wolves, sip Riesling,
clap together my hiking boots

and wait for dust to settle.
Like sentries, Engelmann
Spruce guard the driveway.

A drawing of an owl
hangs from the cabin’s log wall
next to propane lanterns and

a rug with an eagle’s span.
Jim Bridger, A Mountain Man
rests on a coffee table.

The tick of squirrel claws
rattles along the tin roof
like the sound of loosened beads.

A brush of pine boughs sweeps
the window pane. Wasps buzz.
I can see how with grace

a mule deer lifts his fine head,
inquisitive, from within
a lodge pole pine’s deep shadow.

And I am nothing, a small speck
who lives among the high peaks
listening for the bugles of elk.