The Uncertainty of Distance

On the burnt-grass field above the

Flathead,

a woman runs, arms dipping through

the air like oars.

The man she seeks can see her coming--

beside a stack of reeds, he

can hear her howl

but does not yet know the expression

on her face.

From this distance, an untearable cloth

of sweet grass and dust,

a laugh and a wail are equally plausible.

In this moment, he braces himself,

his brain scans the possibilities:

she is running, there is that sound from her.

Where is the child? There is no smoke from the house,

no rider tearing down the horizon.

He stands, breathing in chunks of air,

his back straight and taut,

one hand clutching the thinnest of reeds.