Turning Sixty-Five in Montana
by Walt McDonald

Rambling all over town and mountains,
they swagger in bow ties and boots,
in cahoots with real estate posses

with black bandannas--investors
with dollars dangling from their sleeves,
suede vests and checkbooks and magenta hats.

We can't match that, bidding for ten steep acres
and a cabin without a barn. Here there be elk
and bighorn sheep with pink, tame tongues,

any grass a bargain, now winter' gone. Here's
where we'd live if they'd let us, a dozen miles
from tundra, trapped with firewood and axe.

But who'd tend our cattle back on the plains,
grazing alfalfa in drought, up to their muzzles in dust?
How could we move away from grandchildren

stranded beyond barbed wire, riding the range
on ponies we bred and gave? Who could swing
all year on a mountain deck at dawn?

Back home, we ride old geldings at sundown
and watch horizons burn, and giggling grandkids
run and stumble to our porch.

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