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Whom he muzzled—Grandpa—before her,
Honored with invitations to his den,
Hand on elktooth, hat in hand,
I could imagine without the family-wise
Hazy fugacities, pious exclamations:
Forest jokers who fed him divine dog,
River beauties with gifts of otterskins,
And daughters of the plains—their own reward.

But that winter in the mountains with her brother
Stays mystery, runs me deep into snows
Inspired apparently by only her daguerreotype.
I look at it, stained by the Platte, and, imagining
How quickly he dived and saved it on the way back
And how often drowned it in his beard along the way
As flowers sprang up before him from the bison’s track,
Go into the house again and fetch the Bible.