ABSTRACT
for My Father Day of hunting done, you find this downhill climb hardest. But where the vineyard road begins you balk. Breathing the good scent of sweat and gun oil, you sit cross-legged and tense, your hunting cap brim full of grapes; the valley cupped below, shadowless— waiting for the wine to be poured. First darkness sifts out of trees into your hair. Beyond the last ridge your Rockies pile up, enfolding wings, antlers, 65hides of slain game that rise, now, in twilight, with spaniels, moving down gametrails to drink. At day's end your blue eyes rust like buckshot, changing wine to blood.
