“These hills hold astonishment for me. There is no getting accustomed to them.”
—Nan Shepherd, The Living Mountain

She’s gone and who’s to ask what these
late summer days are like for her, up in the hills
of an unglaciated landscape. We could not hold
her in our backyard, knowing astonishment
was what she pined for, a free range, wild grass for
her contentment, and a community of friends. Me?
I’m happy knowing I have done the best for her, there
along the Ice Age Trail, down a slope where wind is
pure. Yet, there is no getting around the missing, no
jumping of her up and down when I come by. I am getting
along, going about my business. I become accustomed
to a lonelier life, absent her unique vociferations, to
what the other hens could never offer, no, not them.

She’s gone these
late summer hills
now will hold
her astonishment
each morning for
gifts from me

freedom there
where wind is
pure still no
doubt takes getting
used to accustomed
rock soil water air to
being among them