The Least of Reasons

The day's elk hunt over, afternoon dropping
suddenly to night, Montana in November
does things like that, startles those
occasional participants who need to know
the power of mountains

Gathering horses and men, blowing on fingers
Stamping feet, cinching leather, rifles slid
to scabbards, swinging on, a long ride to camp
No elk today, just solitary climbing, do you know
what solitary means in big sky ranges

Quiet riding back, each silent, lost in thought
Creaking leather, plumes of steaming breath
Rolling steady gait, horses heads down, seen it all
Men's heads up, two feet of snow across the valley
Full moon washed silver, no words nor should be

Stifled, breathless beating cry and wings
Whistler swans, necks stretched, string the moon
Their migration, only by night and seldom seen
they'll cry across these ranges, pulling winter
Who wouldn't cry to leave

Cutting trails, elk and moose, coyote long gone
Skidding a creek bank, sit back, urge forward
gingerly on ice, snorting, ears pricked, breaking through
Scramble, balanced against stirrups, reins loose
Clawing up again, leaned forward now and glad

Rhythm of the saddle settles in, two hours yet to camp
High mountain logger's camp, timbers a century standing
Smoke curls, drifting away to follow Whistlers south
Unsaddle, feed and water, rub them down, horses
that have seen it all, see it too soon again

Rifles outside on the wall, shielded by the overhang
Muzzles down against the snow, ready for four in the morning
ready for forty below, for the dark ride out to climb
Time now for hot bread, warm stew, slice of pie and coffee
Quiet, reverential conversation, a sip of Wild Turkey, bed

Killing is the least of reasons for the hunt