In winter light,
canyon shadows quickly darken
steps already taken;
patches of a sinking sun
kiss red rocks
one more time
like lovers parting.

The trail is old,
worn smooth by moccasins,
jingle spurs, cow toes, cavalry.
Stones return the whispers, the bleating,
the dust-coughs
heard by ten-thousand rising moons--

I am them
they are me;
skull-white and bleached
like cougar bones--

outlaw or Indian,
puma or calf,
pursuit is the same:
relentless clink of
hoof-steel over stones,

always coming, always coming.

I am dead, I am living,
I am shadow, I am light;
I am rim rocks cooled and waiting:

a fallen feather, another gun.

 

Tigger Montague lives on a farm in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia with a variety of horses, ponies, dogs, cats, and two wolves. It is Nature and the intricate balance of subtleties and piercings that inspire her daily life, her writing, and her soul. Tigger writes: "When the wind speaks, I listen; when the wolves howl, I howl too."

She has been published by two small literary magazines in the 70's: Tupelo and Exile and work in poetry critique for AWG as NOVLSpirit. This is the third poem of hers that has appeared in The Rose and Thorn.

Have comments you'd like to send the author? Please e-mail Cynthia at: Spiritpaws@aol.com  or fill out the form below: