He woke quiet, ate potatoes and eggs
sitting alone on a cottonwood stump in the sun.
At noon he took a rifle, burlap bag, and handful
of dried apples,
saddled the glass-eyed gelding, corralled
the wayward mare,
whistled one long high note for the hound
and was gone.
It was late the first summer, river running
low, meadow grass tassels paled by wind.
I weeded the garden one faded row at a time
while the goats lazed in barn shade
and the mare paced,
nickering again and again.