Ioanna Warwick
Bighorn Sheep
---The Never Summer Range, Colorado Rockies
The tundra blooms a million tiny suns.
The wind parts the grass,
combs it close to the ground.
The air burns like ice.
hail and thunder darken the next crest.
On the slopes of Specimen Mountain,
between patches of eternal snow,
a dozen ewes and lambs.
Horns even on the watchful females;
the lambs not skittery--
one stops in the saddle of the pass,
stares at me like a child.
Then, like a reward
for not expecting anything,
around a clump of krummholz,
four rams--
triangular faces between
spirals of horns.
I crouch, creep up
until I can see the fused rings
Like statues in an ancient temple:
alabaster heads, topaz eyes,
the horns galaxies of gold.
this is their acropolis,
this plateau of cloud and stone.
If only I could come
closer yet
if they'd sniff my hand,
lick sweat off my skin.
But being human is exile.
I stir, collect my pack.
they grow agitated.
pressing through dense branches,
the fifth ram, the biggest,
steps out.
He walks over to another ram,
waiting, frozen in profile--
he surveys me again, then slowly
lowers his great scrolled head,
and they retreat.
I too retreat, descend.
Behind me, the sky
pulsing with good luck;
before me, great dark bells
of the thunderheads.
I gather threads of coarse wool
to keep my memory warm.
At least we are granted
glimpses, wisps,
among thickets and thorns.
Copyright (C) Ioanna Warwick, 2006. All rights reserved.