As close to Wyoming as could be,
I rambled through the Park Range
forests at the base of Mount Zirkel
and began to climb some rocky ledges
until the pines began to thin and I paused
to stare into the limitless rolling plains of
the big North Park fringed with snowy
Never Summer peaks to the cloudy east.
Then it happened — I felt as though my
body was placed inside a vacuum when
something like a bullet whizzed just above
my head, but I couldn’t see or hear a
single thing — I had to assume it must have
been some sort of fast-diving alpine hawk,
or the product of my own imagination.