Montana

Gold leaves crispy in the fall breeze

crunch beneath my worn-out Vans sneakers

in a symphony, as I walk beside the 

creek that churns and babbles

as though it has a voice 

of its own.

My mom and brother

and uncle and grandmother

carry on ahead, while I

follow slowly behind

until their conversations can

no longer be heard above the creek.

Wilderness lies just beyond

the stream. Pure and untouched.

Its beauty is mesmerizing

all green and russet leaves

against a backdrop of plum-colored

mountains that rise from the earth,

like the bones of giants

felled long ago.

It beckons, compels me forward

enticing me to lose myself within

its vastness. I can see myself 

deserting the path before me

for the untamed freedom

of the rugged landscape.

[I] can see myself swallowed 

up, encompassed in the wilds

of Beartooth Pass, not far from

General George A. Custer’s 

final stand and a wild horse range

where hoofbeats echo off the 

mountain passes in a chorus

of liberation.

But the frontier’s siren call is unaware 

for unbeknownst to the boughs 

of its aspen and pine,

of its sky and forest floor,

I am already long gone.

I walk from beneath the 

shadows of ancient trees

into the sunshine, bright

and warm. My mother tells

me to stop walking as she

snaps a picture with the 

camera. She smiles when 

my face wonders why.

Later, she shows me a

photograph of a young 

woman I hardly recognize

A glimpse of a little girl

long since grown with

blonde hair catching the 

abounding sunlight and

green eyes filled with light.