Click the play button below to listen to Robert P. Cooke read
“Mountain Flowers.”
When I was sixteen, pickup truck, load of hay, there was nothing I’d rather see from the window than women’s underwear hanging on a backyard clothesline. Size didn’t matter, nor color, but I preferred to see them on a mountain ranch because of the ravishing big sky and the long range of open space for the wind. And I’d think, sitting back in my seat and peering out the window, of all the seeds being carried away, and the dust, and the broken-off, fragile blossoms of wildflowers from horses grazing. And I’d think of the wind that caressed goats and sheep in spring on the sloping high meadows. The bras and panties flapping outside on the sunniest days. I saw a pair of pink ones near Fort Collins, the hot breeze causing a slight shifting from one leg to the other, and a little twist at the waist, as if they were slow-dancing.
