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

then crest the rising hill 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

and places her stiffened fingers on my back.

Take your time.

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

their regality unmatched.

I can’t

With a whisper loud enough to startle them all

I just can’t.

Aren’t they beautiful
she asks, watching them go

and turning the safety on.