Take the trail to the high country.
Jack pines, dark green
Birch, yellow
under blue sky
leaves shimmering by the millions.

The bow wave of the canoe on
cold, black water.
My paddle stroke long
and muscular
and steady as she goes.

Trout on the line Tug-of-war.

Truck on grassland, parked.
We've arrived.
Corrals, odors, saddles,
a pretty face smiles at us.

At nightfall, whisky
on a bellyfull of chili.
A cigarette, campfire at night
in the cold, high country.
Laughing, and the guitar sings again.

New friends, Talking late.

Turning in to a cold bed
a vivid recollection,
your horse,
you're rider,
is fresh in mind:

breakneck speed, wind, and dust flying
a thousand pounds of muscular beast saddled
between your legs
hoofbeats pounding
a staccatto thunder

from the blurr of earth rushing below.