Letter to the Answer Men

Don Trump, Scott Pruitt, and Ryan Zinke,

Please help us understand why
it’s raining in the Colorado mountains
in December.


The Deer
Black Bears
Bald Eagles
Bighorn Sheep
Wild Horses
River Otters
Sage Grouse
Red-Tailed Hawks
and Children


Minnesota Creek

Up past Lily Lane,
winter tires sink deep
into January

mud, and the road
gets twisty
beneath the width

of a silver truck.
Fields tattooed
with the feet

of ruddy cattle
give way to high
country ranchland,

and we drive
over sparkling passes
and into the sky,

into the cold, clean air
like the wild geese,
honest and free,

living our lives
like this
on a Saturday,

flying toward sunlight
and into
the great blue.


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.

Driving Between

Stop to notice a
curve in the road –
my mountains ahead,

your mountains behind –
both ranges clear,

and upward
reaching.   Marvel
these Rockies

that grow even now
beneath February
snow melting

to river – white heights
clear, attainable,
and utterly

wide open
against the bluest
Colorado sky.

December Ramble

We tumble
down the white path
barely there,
past naked aspen
and the tips of sticks
whose buds have yet
to bulge.  Blue river
chimes beneath
the frozen snow,
our shoes not right
for post-holing,
but our stories
enough to ward off darkness
until the parked car appears,
and the sun sinks down
through a starry hole
in the Colorado sky.