By Forrest Getz
The steady stream from the dwindling fire,
Weaving its way thru the sparse trees
Out to the pasture,
Slightly above the lowered heads of the grazing horses,
Engulfing the rock I sat upon earlier,
Before quietly fading into the mountain air.
Like ourselves, the stark rise,
The subtle incline,
And last the dispersion, the lingering effect,
Influence remains upon our senses,
The warmth carried from the fire, the burn of haze upon weary eyes,
Finale, the scent that only reminds
Of what was, and what continues to be.