The forest is full
of folks seeking solitude. . .
the thrill of the hunt.
The County plows the road just far enough.
Ewes, lambs within,
stand with wooly backs to the wind,
withstanding the snow and blow.
We can get in behind the plows
with corn and hay, every few days.
Brave men, up from Peru,
Struggle through the snow
and spread the feed, while we venture
along roads, slick with ice, no visibility,
bringing food, wood, water, feed.
Antelope mill in ever larger herds,
hanging along the roads,
grass covered by endless drifts.
Winter, relentless in exacting its toll.
I hope they stay off the railroad tracks.
The BLM says move the sheep,
too many days along that plowed road,
huddled among the hard-drifted snowbanks.