3. Cowboy coffee and fog rolling off roofs like hand-rolled cigarette smoke, I wake to birds.

In Junes String Creek, galloping wild horses I wash my girl past and woman present. The jingle of spurs, small coins in pockets, music to the heart, becomes Chirons hooves pounding down dirt roads to I-dont know-where. No Zane Grey story with a beginning middle and end-its Mary OHaras big mare struggle against corral fences. Wide-open meadow, long creek of salmon: as woman lifts her big boot and ass over the broad back of nights mare to ride through mornings arroyos. Forget the saddle.