Another late-flying congregation
of bow-necked geese.
Another dry flurry, dusts
on a whim of a breeze.
After the mountains, stacked
for hundreds of miles, blanketing –
the cover unmaking to
valleys so long and wide
(I cannot even see,
behind me, a cloud must be breaking
and spilling on distant peaks –
a violent cascade of light.)
Yeah Montana
opens like the crushing of
roses; scattering careless
petals of mid-winter sun on
the plains like wedding-bed blessings.