A December freeze
drove us all into the Blue
Star in Bozeman, you stood
near the buffalo whose old
protruding head leaned out,
warned of the unexpected.
Light leather padded shoes,
I can see them now, small feet.
And your hair a mess of riding
around without a hat on, not
the kind to sit around. I touched
your shoulder for the first time,
and offered a drink of beer. You
were heading back to Alaska,
you told me, and neither of us
could have known that you would
never make it home.
