There is a picture I have

of she and I during hunting season

slinking through sage on our bellies

breathing in the cold November air

and exhaling smoke-like circles that span the distance between us.

Her gloves have the tops cut off

and the tips of her fingers show purple already

even though we have just begun.

Behind us,

the wind is carrying in a mass of snow-filled clouds;

the first flurries dainty and transient on the signal-orange of our jackets.

We begin to scale the callous, lifeless rocks

that cover the hummocks between hunter and hunted;

cresting to see the huffing herd upwind and unaware of our presence.

My nervousness is obvious, I know.

She watches me from under the tugged edge of her knit cap.

Breathe,                                                                                                                                

she reminds me.

You’ve got time,                                                                                                                                            

she reminds me                                                                                                                                               

placing her stiffened fingers on my back.

Take your time.

I watch the elk lift their noses to the incoming storm—

their regality unmatched

and my desire to watch them living

stronger than my desire to be close to one in death.

I can’t   with a whisper

loud enough to startle them all                                                                                                  

and start their domino flee

away from my mother and me.

I just can’t.

Aren’t they beautiful                                                                                                                                                        

she asks, watching them go                                      

and turning the safety on.