Huntley Butte

The roof fell in while I was away in grad school.
Soft pine timbers gave under assault
by snow, raccoons and the insults of time
swing low the house of my great-grandparents
swing low.

A low dry ridgeline from Absarokee to Columbus
guards the bones of the homestead
the dust of my ancestors' blood and sweat.
In the hard years, they were all hard years,
we took odd jobs, never even.

My people have been:
truckdrivers and cowboys,
shepherds and midwives,
marines and roughnecks,
seasonal hands at the sugar beet plant.

My people have not been:
doctors and lawyers,
smug downtalking ranchers,
mayors or board members,
Ivy League princes.

But for a while we had this:
The broadest piece of sky.
640 acres of dry land to prove up.
A house, a horse,
the beginnings of pride.

A guy from Flagstaff wants to buy the place
at $250 an acre.