The Draw

It’s easy to see the sunset on the hills here, sliding across its face, defining its contours. The cattle up high, dots against the velvet grass, doing their thing.

It’s easy to see the light-colored puffs of sage. Pinpricks of pine high on the upper slopes. An old scar of a landslide far off.

But these aren’t what held me.

What held me was the red fire pouring down the throat of the draw. The willows and scrub have lost their leaves. 

An early, wet snow would snap a branch that still clings to them.