Our Future, Our Fortune – by Cameron Scott
Chasing elk off the ridge in hail and lightning,
shorts stick to thighs.
to the sing-song squelch of shoes over slick logs,
crisscross cliff bands, slog for miles
along the river until we end up in the last bit of sun
sprawled in mist rising from a gravel parking lot
where we dream of wood smoke, shower soap
and steam, the cold crisp pop of hops, pop and sigh
of red sauce smothering ravioli.
Where we dream
of collapsing into a circular house
surrounded by steep valleys rising up to peaks
which rise into towering clouds, and somewhere between
are gaps of sky intoxicating as juniper berry gin.
Soul drunk and punch tired, hitchhiking
out of the wrong drainage at dusk, we dream
this waking dream of descending again, in feet
and inches, tens of thousands, which lead
to the inner edge of life;
where over and over
we chase elk off the ridge as brown dust rises
and a black cloud descends
and the ground turns white from hail.