Staring at these bones
in the utter rhythm of sun
they seem inevitable,
but only might have been.
In the Montana mountains
scanning a meadow for barbed wire
I stumble upon a half-devoured carcass
a meal not yet completed.
I suddenly feel
not so alone in that vastness.
I look to the spaces between the trees
for eyes in the dark night,
there is rain
and mud,
obscure shapes
of their parietal art
hovering in scorched shadows,
jackrabbit jawbones
not quite half-moons.
The underside of pelvis bones
shaped like owls,
these bones and bones and bones,
bleached fragments on the edge,
stiller than the breath
of stone.
Photo credit: Pixabay via Pixabay License
