On their long passage to the arctic, snow geese
stop here in the tens of thousands, on the thawing
waters of slim lakes shadowed by the shining
mountains, what the Blackfeet call the backbone
of the world, on land that was theirs and is now
turned up in the service of Anheuser-Bush’s
empire of malt. But for the geese the path
is unchanged. They gather here, and they rest.
They rise, squall in tsunamic murmuration. They
shimmer the air, cross the day moon, feed
in the gaunt shade of pivot lines next to mule deer
who search the chaff, tweaking their satellite-dish
ears. Driving west to Augusta, through twilight-
quilted fields, I know the folks here are proud
to say they feed the world, so I think of words
most have forgotten, like furrow, thresher,
reaper, and harrow: sod-breaking words, of sift
and divide. Towards the west, a dark bank of clouds
hides the jagged front range. But the setting
sun sits above it, yet, and blasts our eyes.
—
Corrie Williamson is the author of three books of poems: Your Mother’s Bear Gun; The River Where You Forgot My Name; and Sweet Husk. She is also a co-editor of the in-progress anthology A Literary Field Guide to the Rocky Mountains. Her work has appeared widely in venues such as The Kenyon Review, AGNI, The Southern Review, 32 Poems, Poetry Daily, as well as various anthologies. She lives in Montana, where she works in conservation.
