The Drifters
We came to the high meadows, the path ahead
always just out of reach.
You rocked in the saddle as you rode,
climbing against twisted cloud,
on a paint your talking broke
back in the spring.
Through switchback scrub, by the precipice,
past the wall streaked
with images of extinct herds,
we cleared the map’s last edge.
We looked back, and the rain,
black moods of it, trapped the light,
and night fell through us
until our mouths were filled with it.
I lost you at the blind rise.
Calling to you against what seemed
infinite distance, from the dark
a dragging, half-made sound returned, a cold fall of stars
I knew by name.
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