/ poetry

A poem about fresh air ...



It must be like this in Montana.

Clouds whirling from mountains

like steam from hot coffee.

Snowfields stark in air so thin

we would argue over whose butt

should freeze to get

our log fire crackling.

Later over franks and beans,

a distant, persistent cough

might help us focus on clear streams

raking melt down to the Flathead;

might help us to home in on

Marlboro men leading horses to water.


Tony Noon


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