Going to the Sun

on a morning when the sun
hides the Peaks of Heaven,
the sheath of Lake MacDonald
slices 480 feet and we creep up
along the green length of hills,
a slow and gentle turtle
emerging from the trough.
Birdwoman Falls drapes and sprays
its curl of liquid lace
across the canyon.
We sweep into the clouds,
the realm of high goats,
toward Logan Pass.
I eat on a flat, red rock
high above St. Mary,
drink the champagne of pine
and wind.
Clouds flow over the mountains,
roaming the shadows
of afternoon ghosts.
I am part of the embroidery,
the balm and blossom of eagles
and cedar,
sun-warm stones, the swaying
embrace of familiar trees.