Dawn we rambled out to look for raptors;
just my grandson James and me, woolen socks,
winter hats, walking up Snake River Gorge.
James led me on the trail, binoculars
around his neck, bird book firm in his hand.
Hawks and falcons circled black volcanic
cliffs; mice and rabbits hid in perfumed sage,
chaparral; dry-brown reeds and grasses climbed
the riverbank; small birds perched and sang.
James turned, spied white steam rising from a pile
of rocks, venting from the deep. Scent of sul-
fur in our noses, strange warmth on our hands.
We would have missed it on a summer day.