Sandhill cranes pull up their stockings, tie down their nests;
an upset storm creeps in, smokes a cigar down the crack
of Saddle Peak, rests its legs over Sacajawea, puff puffs a
bit of rain and hail before coughing up some afternoon thunder.
Bison brave the weather, tell brethren stories of
when Bozeman was better, more beautiful—
You just had to be there.
Evening comes as the clamorous waves of wind calm.
Silence is broken by a few bird chirps and the sound of a black
lab barking at the homeless man across the street.
A distinct smell of antique dryer vents fills the air.