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.