Big Horns

In the bosom of the Big Horns
the spirits on the breeze
come chittering and chattering,
circling and prattling,
around me.
They brush the hair on my arms,
pat lightly the back of my neck,
tickle my ankles,
whisper in my ears.

I think they are checking
my credentials.

I must be acceptable.
They wander away
riffling leaves and
conversing amongst
themselves.

Palavering.