I will miss this man’s wonderful writing. I’m quite up on his novels but not so much his novellas, and certainly not his poetry. So at least I have that to look forward to.
Moving higher my thumping chest recites the names
of a dozen friends who have died in recent years,
names now incomprehensible as the mountains
across the river far behind me.
I’ll always be walking up toward Antelope Butte.
Perhaps when we die our names are taken
from us by a divine magnet and are free
to flutter here and there within the bodies
of birds. I’ll be a simple crow
who can reach the top of Antelope Butte.
–Jim Harrison (1937-2016)