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.
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