A bottle of Yellowstone

out by the windmill, another

concealed in the tack room,

one by the cattle-gate to the pasture.

"Hold on here Tommy"

the gentle uncle pulls the pickup

over at the corner of two fences.

He dismounts and searches the grass,

returning with a bottle of whiskey.

"Here take a nip" passing the bottle,

the amber fire

lights his throat

all the way down.

The cold prairie and aching,

bouncing bones

able again.

Kind, wrinkled eyes

In a gaunt face

survey the treeless sea of grass,

watching for strays

or down fences,

salt blocks needing replacement,

windmills pumping properly or

blow-outs needing attention.

Once we came upon

six dead cows

struck by lightning.

Dropped where they stood,

bodies randomly arrayed

in a shallow hollow.

Uncle Paul betrayed little feeling

but a quiet dismay,

noting he would call the renderer

when he got back to the house.

The bottle passed once more.