Whom the Bugle Calls

The town of Grand Lake from across the lake 

It sounded loud and distant

before the sun had risen 

A high meadow above town

into the woods toward whence it came

I walked in expectation 

orange sky foretells the dawn

cleft hoofprints dot the mud 

among dark trunks of dying lodgepoles

up a hill to a grassy knoll  

and there he stood, a lonely bull

calling into the dawn 

a lonely howl, a sniff of air

this elk without a mate

other bulls have many wives

he fears he’ll have to fight them

looking down he watches me

wonders if I’ll do 

then takes a breath

and blows another bugle sound