Water on Montana Stones

Once upon a decade ago,
an open valley, east of elsewhere. 
Ghost barns and broken fences 
and rolling roads under Montana skies. 

Somewhere and sometime,
a broad river carves a bend, 
rattling stones and sparkling light. 

A century or more
since heavy winds carried the woe
of Chief Joseph and his weary quest. 

They camped.
They wanted home. 
They were caught.

The waters carry voices as they flow along. 

A fly-fisher wades at the water’s edge,
flicking and swishing her line.
A rust-red truck, dingy shell,
waits for her in the gravel pullout. 

A family driving
Bitterroot to Bozeman
gathers on the stony shore.
Her first steps in a cold current.
A giggle, her small hands engulfed in his. 

She doesn’t know the Nez Perce story yet.
(Autocorrect wants “New Peace”
which makes a kind of bitter sense).

She knows the water is cold, 
fast, and the stones are slippery, 
but her daddy is there. 

In time, they drive on, round the bend
and down the road
into a world of farewells and hellos.

The world falls empty again
except for the water on Montana stones.