Like clouds casting shadows on the earth, frozen gas bubbles are trapped in river ice so clear, it can’t be seen.
Bones from previous years’ hunts are uncovered as the snow clears.
Wild horses graze their way to the river and back every day…
The red dog joins me at the black dog’s grave,
atop the endless southern plain, not far from the border with Utah;
a spot accessible in snow or mud, and therefore popular for dumping carcasses.
To dig a grave for an elk or a deer would be absurd,
and the litter of white bones from previous hunts surrounds our two figures –
caught between the ground that conceals our friend’s frozen body
and a warning written on the lid of winter’s coffin:
“Wyoming is such an odd place, where no one will expect you to be anything at all.”