Approaching The Rockies Poem by David Welch

My quest to walk across the nation,
like vaunted pioneers of old,
started in Maine six months ago,
post vlogs of my progress for folks.

I am deep in Wyoming now,
and I'm on my third pair of shoes,
brown grass beneath, cropped by cattle,
in front the prairie meets its end.

It's a spread of foot-hills at first,
low and slashed by gullies, canyons,
their slopes half-forest, half-open,
perfect space for elk to graze.

Cannot see any up there now,
though a few buzzards wheel about,
behind them loom big, granite waves,
frozen forever into peaks.

Not the first to just stand and stare,
nor am I the last, I suspect.
There are goats up there, snowy white,
and grizzled bruins, huge and brown.

Mulies with their tall, forked antlers,
and charging, spiral-horned sheep,
darting amidst blazes of aspen,
near soldier-strait ponderosas…

Snow still clings on, up near the crests,
I don't think it will ever leave.
Nearby, a decrepit wagon,
old wood bleached by endless sun.

Is it a relic of the past?
Or decoration of today?
Who knows, but its path ended here,
mine continues, right through the peaks.