BAY
At 28, he sleeps standing, head heavy
in September sun, inches from
its shadow. He cannot hear me
for the sounds in his dreams:
the sudden crack of manzanita
or the chorus of bawling calves –
and men. I see the faces gone,
shake hands again and ride within
the old horizons on the edges
of our eyes – and grins. We were
the band that ran these hills
with cows. We were the hands
and proud to hold the wild within
these dark shadows, come alive
as he shrinks into the ground.