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  • The Paris Review

    Primm Meadow

    Jun 14, 2022 0 minutes

    In the Gold Creek basina ponderosa trunk’socher plates of barkconverge with blackfault lines we decidesmell like cinnamon.I shoulder a blanket,you the flask wheregin swishes. Rustinghistorically, chassisfrom settler wagonsare ragged beds forMontana wheatgrass.Sickle-shadow moonspock the ground viaan off-center eclipse.The valley otherwisecharred, this glade isold-growth miracle.Behind an iron fenceof pointy fleurs-de-lis,sun-dappled pioneerheadstones could bemy ancestor’sultimate colony.Leaving, we passedan SUV’s worth ofdudes spraying treeswith semiautomatics.It’s national forest landnow. A citizen can dowhatever he likes there.

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