Montana is mostly dry.

I wish fir the rain

every Sunday so that

I can skid through Monday mud.

I love dry grass, but sometimes

hay-like blades slice through my feet and

I bleed.

I bleed for partnership.

There is no one around for miles

since Joe left.

I cover our tent with a blue tarp when it rains,

but now,

in the blinding sunshine, I cover my eyes with hands

and squint at the waving beams

while hopping in a small dance

that makes my ankles click together and my feet bleed

and bleed and bleed.