Arrowheads at Boar’s Tusk

You hunt alone. Your feet break
the dust of seasons, suns and winds
left crumbled below you, like a shore
that has remembered every wave. No one
walks with you, and you don’t speak.
Only step around sagebrush and look
for stone burnt red. And when your eye catches
a single, smooth line in the earth it makes you
pause, but it’s nothing.
Only then do you look up
to gauge the sun or to find your friend,
walking on the next ridge, out of earshot,
and then see how pine-covered bluffs set themselves
deliberately against a blue-white sky.
Stand for a moment in chilly sunlight
and breathe, then let your eyes
fall back to the past and your
feet move again.