Do you remember the sound of elk

twinkling through tent,

undulating thin nylon and sleeping bags?

One night

in Rocky Mountain National Park

we lay in the dark

interrupted only by cold and bugle.

I thought their moans

must have been myth coming through brass,

so I walked the dog

through the other campers,

seeking the source.

I found rustling black hills

awash in stuttering aspen leaves,

but couldn’t reach the singing fur.

Instead of returning to your warm body,

I lingered,

looking,

listening—

the notes, swinging and low,

more moving

than your hot fingertips

trying to peel me down

to pure sound.