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by Laura L. Snyder
They disturb me
in my bed. I hear a throbbing
through the walls of my insulated house
circled by paved roads.
What it means, I can’t say.
They draw me
out on the frosty plains. Four days travel
was not enough. The snowshoe hare,
the brooding mountains to the west, gave no answers. Out here
winds run without an argument. Time is marked
by a twist of hide on a broken antelope bone,
or by last year’s coneflower stalk
as it rattles against my horse’s leg. Whispers
mock from ice-glazed sod. Listening,
waiting, my gloves turn rosy with dawn.
Only echoes remain. Nothing
the pounding of horse hooves cutting sod,
throwing clods of root and stone,
the racing thunder of buffalo across open plains.