Sheep's Head Mountain
Sheep's Head Mountain stood like
a suspicious giant behind
Ronan, Montana.
A mere speck of a city
yet large as a bored child's sigh,
still freshly weird
to a six year old big city girl.
Buried deep within the mountain's shadow
was grandpa's house.
Grandpa are there really bears here?
That's right little girl. Seen'em myself.
Flower fields by a crystalline stream
that called to you
on a hot day to play
like a bright mermaid.
Real cows, huge and wonderful
grazing near apple trees.
Jumping into freshly stacked hay,
with Montana cousins,
exotic with Northwest accents
and Montana sun in their hair.
Grandpa held the feline strays
with infinitely patient hands.
Those same hands,
gnarled and sun-stained,
carefully tied the line for fly fishing
or the bright blue ribbon
in his granddaughter's hair.
Grandpa they're my ponytails, not puppy dog ears.
OK, little girl. Wanna learn to catch trout?
He was a cheerful inquisitive bird
with his bright eyes and small smiles.
He sent fall leaves from Montana trees.
Precious artifacts from another world.
They were cherished
on a shelf lit by Texas Sun.
Fall leaf rainbows.
Mountain shadow smiles.
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