I’m not sure what to call
where he is. In Montana, anything not west
is back-east-of-here. I need to fine tune
my directions-either north or south. I didn’t grow up
with such boundaries. I wonder
should he catch my thoughts, would he turn
and see I’m caught between memories
of melted glaciers, craters of alpine heather, the faint
wagon trail threading through 19th century fir to a legend
of a lake.  I once spent a summer, searching
for that water.  One hot blue day I jumped in
with all my clothes on, imagining should I ever return, the skip
and holler would still echo in the canyon. I want him
to hear that echo, I want him to make his own. Last time
I hiked this eroded path, he was what was gone