M. R. Smith
Pale aspen haunt the slope
above me like spiny ghosts.
Descending fog drags the fall
howl of elk. Below I hear our dog,
our truck, our screen door slam.
I watch the dun of dad’s Carhartts
pass beneath the barn light.
Nothing that moves is comforting,
not the slow slide of the moon falling,
not the drone of the morning tractor.
I’m going to move up the mountain
where I can’t feel the farm any longer.
Every year I am trying to get higher.