That highway still fights north
its semis and sedans. Seasons flash.
I age. The dog ran because it was a fool
toward the highway, and I called its name
against the rush, until it stopped,
and sat, on the shoulder's dust,
the way my friend the hunter did not
stop climbing hills into state forest shadow
beside a different highway.
What did he find? Sunrise over a peak,
a browsing elk, a sparrow's beak,
an ant's crawl?
I lent a student a book last week,
and she found his Missoulian obit,
phlegm-yellow. Letting her
keep the book, I pocketed the news
and it went through the wash,
like most memory. Now
I walk around tame city blocks,
dog on leash, and I say the hunter's name:
Todd. The dog is Lefty. I'm Ed.
And your role? You're yourself,
fighting ahead past this moment
highway impatient and blind.