Staring at these bones

in the utter rhythm of sun

they seem inevitable,

but only might have been.

In the Montana mountains

scanning a meadow for barbed wire

I stumble upon a half-devoured carcass

a meal not yet completed.

I suddenly feel

not so alone in that vastness.

I look to the spaces between the trees

for eyes in the dark night,

there is rain

and mud,

obscure shapes

of their parietal art

hovering in scorched shadows,

jackrabbit jawbones

not quite half-moons.

The underside of pelvis bones

shaped like owls,

these bones and bones and bones,

bleached fragments on the edge,

stiller than the breath

of stone.

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