wyoming . . . . .

The stark gray branches piled thick
like pick-up sticks.
Do dead trees feel the wind?

The river talks incessantly
and never takes a breath.
I wonder how it sleeps.

The breeze cools one side of my neck
and the sun beams down on my back
warming my thick black sweater.

A green and white nylon tie around one trunk
flapping like a feather,
marking it for some purpose.

The soft gaze of a deer in the distance,
brown and unmoving.
watching me from afar.