Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump, I
A peregrine and his mate nest in the face of the jump,
now, in the quiet season, before tourists herd themselves up
and down its slope, craning their necks, snapping
photographs. Now it’s just us and the biting wind
he glides on, and his shriek. He lands on a signpost
he doesn’t know is a signpost, flares his feathers, eyes us
with ancient ferocity. Guarding his nest
from our invasion of two, our binoculars
and peanut butter crumbs. Poor guy,
I tell my husband. He has no idea
what’s gonna come.