Deep West

I've been immersing myself in the literature of this country. Stories and poems full of extremities, solitude, pride, the aching blue of the sky and a dark, haughty sense of humor. I can already feel my departure coming upon me and I want to let go of none of it. Every little star in the sky, I want to remember, absorb, and carry it back home. It is a place I know I will return.

Birds Too Fat To Fly by David Romtvedt

John tells Margo she is placid.
She worries he secretly means bland.
But one bright fall day she saw
a group of eagles—Golden and Bald—
feeding on a carcass. They
were like vultures, so full
they couldn't leave the ground.
They lurched up and down
the hillside relearning the lessons
of their youth. They were,
Margo told me, "Birds too fat to fly."
And laughed, "What a great phrase -
think of Trouble, Harold and Penelope
alone together on winter range
and when we go to get them,
we have to coax them in, shake
cans of oats and promise them endless
warm barns and clear fresh water
and no saddles." It's a game.
I say the sky is the sky
too blue to believe. "Come on,"
Margo sweetly taunts, " You can
do better than that." And throws me.
Cold too bitter to breathe.
Draws too deep to defend.
Erosion too aged to erase.
Grass too gone to green.
She really laughs at that last
and names the whole: "Ranching
too disastrous to deny."
But who cares -
happiness too holy to humble
and life too lovely to lose.
She puts her arms around me
and stands placidly, motionless,
whispers in my ear,"Birds
too fat to fly..."