by Danielle McClune
Dust tracks you and settles like a house guest.
Montana, August, and the earth cracks crow’s
feet across burning plains. A tinderbox biding one hot breath.
Montana does not need you, never
did. Prehistoric in its indifference. Peaks
rise against a royal sky and sit heavy on a bladed stage.
A lucky traveler wonders. A mindful traveler aches.
A corridor named for bitterroot, laceration
in the big wide open. Water cuts a rusted trail.
Maybe, you catch the clouds in a rose-soaked flush.
Maybe, you grasp the rise of a glowing loam.
But this assumes you’re paying mind.
Danielle McClune is a writer, critic, and policy researcher based in Seattle by way of Milwaukee, and a graduate of the Arts Leadership M.F.A. program at Seattle University.
Before you move on to the next story … Please consider that the article you just read was made possible by the generous financial support of donors and sponsors. The Emerald is a BIPOC-led nonprofit news outlet with the mission of offering a wider lens of our region’s most diverse, least affluent, and woefully under-reported communities. Please consider making a one-time gift or, better yet, joining our Rainmaker Family by becoming a monthly donor. Your support will help provide fair pay for our journalists and enable them to continue writing the important stories that offer relevant news, information, and analysis. Support the Emerald!