Elk Mountain is solid on my right, and
Colorado snow is melting on the
farther slopes.
I glide across Medicine Bow River as
stars fade out in turn, the clouds of night
still dark against the morning grey,
one hint of color showing where dawn
will be.
The air I split in two seems not to care,
nor Wyoming law my speed, nor
anyone my passing here.
It is well with the tires and the motor and
my life. I think how friends will ask
about this trip. Those I can never show
such a morning to.
I will say the trip took an effort, but was
always a delight, and sometimes an ecstasy.
Now is the ecstasy. A silver moon
hangs high overhead. The air is clear
like a trumpet note. Already the farm
houses are spilling yellow light from
kitchen windows, where breakfasts
sizzle on the stove.
The land wakes as on its first day.
Animals that watch me pass I am
watching too. Deer and antelope
stand grazing in herds as clouds test
colors of pink and red and silver.
Just hours from now I will swoop down
on Cheyanne like Indians used to swoop.
From among the trucks that got up early too.
From the side toward Laramie and ocean.
From whatever is told by men who ride two
wheels across a country in the open air.
