Wilderness
       

Scaling the face of the Beartooths
beyond the last grip
of roots and shale
wolverines lip the far ridge
and disappear into no man's land.
We go hand over fist,
stand
and look down on Sylvan Lake

and her tail stream,
blue echo of the day.
Bones of an eagle
on the upslant at our feet, wing flare
of longer and shorter bones
we select
and set back one at a time
in their form, carpometacarpus, radius,
and ulna, hand bones
and wing bones,
spine, skull.
At dawn we find ourselves again

in our tent on the skirt
of Sylvan. Light
in the bowl of the earth, light
on your shoulders and hips,
elbows, arms and wrists,
the auburn of your eyes,
jaw and body rise.

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Copyright © 2020 Shann Ray All rights reserved
from Sweetclover
Lost Horse Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission