slink dog

by underswansea


I can’t get over the land I was born to. It’s easy to curse. Perhaps, it does the same to me.

When I was younger, it was clear. There was a calling back then.

The mountains have turned a blue that spells thaw. The ice is ready. Snowstorms are wet without menace. We have made it to the other side.

Saw a herd of bluebirds and a flock of elk. He saw them too. After awhile they are tough to tell apart.

The old dog tries to steer me in the right direction, but I run astray, hunting in the mountains.