closing the miles between

I can’t look at mountains
without wanting you
trekking ahead of me,

leading me to summits
I would not explore alone,
taking me to a world
where only you and I

see the vastness of time
rise to touch eternity
as history spreads
in peaks and valleys.

Western clouds gather
to rumble and spill.
How many thunderstorms
will resound through my pane

with flashes of light
and tremulous echoes
before my heart stops
waiting for you?

Petticoat Peak

A wooden frame stands
on her rocky top
time-gray and warped.
Rusted penny nails hold
cracked boards carved
with names and years
as far away as 1919.

To the east, Salt River’s
snowy peaks are prairie points
binding ground blocks;
fresh plowed brown
and new-growth green
quilted by pivots and roads.

Below us, a dust devil
curls a dirty column
from exposed soil,
winds into oblivion
on a grass border.

Westward, mountain tops
fan across Earth's palm
like a hand of cards
dealt for play and cool
breezes venture fragrant
offerings of sage across
the windswept ridges
of Fish Creek Range.