Aspen or birch? The bark tells the story
when fire bites like a dog. O morning howl,
could your melancholy taste like mine? I am
a painting of an elk, considering the snow.
You are the false flames in my fore-view
mirror. We will not climb together
without spiked shoes and a wide
leather belt. And the mountains
will laugh at our smallness
either way. The god of the owls
called to the fading yellow lines
on the asphalt last night, asking again,
are we there yet? The moon was almost
full, obviously. Waxing the stumps
that reveal how it was, all those fires
ago, when we were young and knew
how to talk to the wind.
Roman Ryan 