by Joshua Patch
At daybreak to the ridge decamp the herds.
A cowboy hoods his lamp and mockingbirds
devolve the night to lovers born at dawn.
We fight at all hours when the kids are gone.
Today you put your flannel on and stole
the trail guide’s easy mare. You’re on patrol
right now somewhere along the fire road,
decoding me, relaying me in code.
Back in the cabin, network channels shine
and fade like fresco panels in decline.
The Hindu Kush, its peaks in scholar’s white,
sparse brush below in valleys recondite—
A warlord fled there in the night. He chose
his mount, a lean Qatgani, slept and rose,
gazed out at dawn from one ridge to the next,
a texture more arcane than holy text.
Joshua Patch is a teacher living in Michigan. His poetry has
appeared in Solum Journal, Reformed Journal, and elsewhere. He
was longlisted for the inaugural Lemonlight Poetry Prize.
The Borough 