Lone wolf and a loose woman horse
around after the bars close late, sit
under a howling moon, eat the flesh
of cutthroat trout on the blue banks
edging Whitefish River where loons
at the lake eek-out crazy cries of longing.
Rockets’ red glare—their ferocious fight
wrenching freedom from the star-black
sky. Smoke curls like question marks
in the chill of night when ghosts turn
marble, fend off looters and fill the trees
with hard sounds, haunting moans. Time
to go home, be among the wild grasses,
feel the wet earth, study solitude as
a giant stone, lick wounds, down whiskey.
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