Yellowstone

We didn’t dream of water, we dreamed of fire:
the slow buzz and pop of morning
with mountains watching over us—
the heights snow-filled and cold
as we sunbathed and played in the heat below

There was whiskey in a dry cabin
as we shook off days of mud and thunder,
when the wonders of the ancient world
rolled out before us—
urged us to walk through and dream
of a time before measurements,
of a time before hunting for sport

It seems odd to me now that it exists,
like I’ve got it all wrong and believed the illusion
that something so beautiful
could one day explode and go away

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