Coffee. A chill in the air, a search for morning sun.
Out away from it all, closer to it than ever… He got cowboy, put on Randy.
He expected sweet paradise.
He collared up cool in denim half river scruff under the barn cap
pitched a long rugged month in his tent mind, expected wood smoke to
dream stomach sweet inside and that he'd not for granted go gritted without and have
all playing it fireside cowboy, stars charged and spit smoldering into hardwood paradise.
'It feels like somethin' he'd say if someone asked, half scruff an answer hard to river out tell but doubtless – whether where a jagged trail had led or a wiley sprang antelope, a soft Eve maybe lingering in the cool barn nights summers years ago – he'd go ready collared up and charged. Can't quite say but the Canyon's in it and that one time and another in his tent-beyond in came a quiet light like smoke-linger in fire lap high licked and far ahead of his hopes shone so long so always he now never left unready.
Kids, woods about them, think this way, boys mainly pitching tents maybe charged starry eyed long expected and smoldering in wait for Eve. See, ‘It's a slant most days I can give my eye’ – black ant highway marching down crusted tree bark 12 years old, lanky stakes cutting pale the deep pitching down sturdy twine taught to nestle in the grass, stains on knees straddling stumps on a log bridge, grain weathered on worn streambed for 13 for 25 for manhood wet pure beneath the skin I tore off to dream the first tree ever, the sweet shade of it pulp of it mind of it, not mine see… it's now alive rugged for gritted all of us.
And Chasm Falls spun it, white swam fractured down a face-wall rock of canyon and jackpine sap playing sweet in that cool mid-morning holler blue the mountain pass, smoky dream inside it long the bluegrass chickweed all the rucksack leaves for granted gone boldery to stone and spidering up along the Colorado edge where – the gritted goodness of things granted – he'd have all, could be seen by just about anyone charged hard fireside into woody cowboy play.
Oh say, could your eyes beneath within expect to wet kid, can Eve you sometimes tent-beyond see? Could you cowboy into this fireside, pitch a stomach dream ancient, catch a hatful a barn cap aglow with glittering stars gritted o'er the flame and darkness? And join smoldering pure me, spit this way like boys mainly, a slant pitching down taught to true to joy to have all that somethin’ feeling paradise sweet, so granted, so expected.
