They climb a plum-trimmed canyon and reach the bare Hi-Line.
No houses. No trees.
Sunset, and the white crib is carried
across the sod house threshold.
Horace himself planed that threshold, framed the windows.
He lifts Mary down. “Well?”
She strides to the door and lifts the latch.
Gleaming pine floors catch the fading light.
“Nice, Horace. I’m here,” is all she will give him.
Jennie leaps from the wagon still clutching the buffalo robe.
Red gold purple green the twilight scoops deep below the low hills.
Stars twinkle in the east.
The country rolls out like a carpet in a long run to the sky.
She spins on the short grass.
No one notices or chides.
She can see forever.
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