Jackson Hole, Wyoming
We stalled in the parking lot across from the deserted sanctuary
partaking in the bliss of warm mouths and an engine left running
painting what little flatlands there were with shades of our
American exhaust:
an open beer in the cupholder
red wine in the corner of your eyes
bluegrass rhymes on the radio.
We were sleep-deprived, but we bolted upright
when the bugling erupted out of thin air
Although the rain had lifted
Although August was blowing down through the Cathedral Group
We stayed in the car, ripe with the scent of our dreaming
and watched the elk fall in love in the low country