When I was a kid, my mother made stew and biscuits
with honey. In that time the world spun quietly around us.

My horse goes where he knows, the reins soft and loose
in my hands. I’m using my father’s old saddle. It sits good.

I can’t fall asleep if I can’t see the moon.
If I awaken in the dark I forget who I am.

A spider web hangs in the end of season lupines,
silhouetted in the low evening sun. Unbreakable.

The lowland pasture is wet late this year but no snow
in the mountains and the high country creeks are already dry.

With the change in weather, new plants have arrived. This year the cattle
are eating something that makes their skin burn in the sun.

A friend sits against a dead cedar. I’m too old
to ride with you, he says. Leave me here.