Heading west from Buffalo
On old 16 to Yellowstone
Over lofty peaks,
Above the timber line,
With crispy air
And winding roads
I start to feel just fine.
I reach the top
And wonder what’s below
Pulling in my limits
To see if I can know.
Moving very slowly
I fix what I will find
In that place
Between my ears
I like to call my mind.
Round a ridge
I plunge into a canyon,
Descending as I go,
Amidst the walls
Of Ten Sleep
To the great plain far below.
Past cathedral rocks that jut
Obliqing massive boulders
Along this gorgeous rut.
It’s a stadium for cowboys
And trapper’s trails that cut
A place for stars at midnight
And campgrounds that abut
The mysteries of rivers
That by millenniums made
The course of far west commerce
And well worn leather’s trade.
- Thomas Vorce