Climbing Buttes

I climb buttes.
I press my feet into bentonite clay,
scrape my sandals against scoria,
pull sage from the side
of the tombstones of the Rockies.
I carry bourbon in my backpack,
add a single droplet of
muddied river water
to my drink—
a bourbon and branch,
my trophy when I ascend
this prairie mountain.
I drive dusty rock roads,
sweeping through carpeted clover.
I dive into the badlands
of my childhood wonderings.
A rusted weather vane
swings in the breeze,
marking the grave of a never known farmstead.
Does my pursuit of
geography
make me a land lover?
Or a foreshadow
of the destruction to come?