Wildflowers

Five rustling riders
whoop down a mountainside.
Purple finds them

on their wheeled horses,
bare shoulders whipping
against the tall summertime

lupin. They reel in
high alpine passes like great,
colorful fish, laying the groundwork

for next week’s euphoric recall –
even as their weary legs burn
like fire, and spokes fly

like rusted wire – they give themselves
over to drowning
in yet another flaming hillside,

so bright with electric pigment
it is certain to bring a grown human
to her knees

in the wild yellow sunflowers,
amid these ever blossoming
friendships, simultaneously

brand new
and ancient, like the holy
Rocky Mountains.