Cameron Aveson

Leaving the Backcountry

Whistling into the empty
meadow: bluegrass gone
gold, chapped lips cracked,

one boot up on a fallen
cottonwood. I look for long
ears rising behind willow

thickets, listen for the faint
rumble of hooves ready
to take me home. We know

the call, the long clear note
falling off. The animals will
carry the remnants of camp:

yellow rainfly soaked with dark
smoke from small fires, brittle
with years of sun, shovels

blunted, all the food gone.
I walk out to meet them.
Frozen on a flower, a bee:

bristles glistening in new
sun like thoughts of the city,
or these mountains in spring,

the way distance beckons,
how intimacy flees. I run
a numb finger across her

back, hoping for the return
of feeling, wanting the sting.
How long can I keep this up?

Until I return. Until I leave.
Always restless, the mules
line out behind me like memory,

burdened, exhausted, following.

Return to Volume 7.3

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