60 Miles East of Yellowstone

The day my grandfather died, 101 y. ba wa ld gh ea HI gles sin electrocuted Ba them overlook the selves on wires that overlook

When the last great bird hit the ground,

a current rippled for miles and surfaced

in the iron earth beneath my grandfather's boots.

My grandfather works his team, he checks Dan's headstall,
the two-year-old draws in a smell of the old man as the buckboard shifts.

His whistle drives the Belgian team down the fence line.
The charged ion of spring unbridles my grandfather's heart, and disappears.

He sees his grip loosen, sees the rust of the horses tear into the barbed wires, sees the buckboard roll, next to green, next to red, next to the dirt-ridden SNOW.