Do you remember the sound of elk
twinkling through tent,
undulating thin nylon and sleeping bags?
in Rocky Mountain National Park
we lay in the dark
interrupted only by cold and bugle.
I thought their moans
must have been myth coming through brass,
so I walked the dog
through the other campers,
seeking the source.
I found rustling black hills
awash in stuttering aspen leaves,
but couldn’t reach the singing fur.
Instead of returning to your warm body,
the notes, swinging and low,
than your hot fingertips
trying to peel me down
to pure sound.
fiction poetry "fact" photography