We arrived into a hailstorm at the Bozeman airport
shouting directions through the ping-pang
pounds of rain and shreds of lightning
spat from an electric black sky
as we skidded around roundabouts
with lazy windshield wipers
Three days of dust
we rode, windows down
engine heat blasting through the defrost vents
The chugging of the long-stick gear shift traded rhythm
with distorted blues guitar riffs through blown-out speakers
All else was lost to the sounds of wind
The landscape rich with bright gold and impossible indigo
I reached for my sunglasses and realized
that I was already wearing them
My lungs ached from the dirt
My heart reinstated by the gratitude of strangers
I felt confident in my talents
That doesn’t happen often enough
The clear nights were filled with billions of stars
I created constellations in my mind of kites and conch shells
But the Big Dipper was still king
even amongst all the glitter
I could hear the distant moaning of cattle
floating through the valley
Over the fast-rushing Yellowstone
reminding me that I am still swimming upstream