John Macker		Elegy I'm thinking about an ellipsis of small towns on the Little Snake River, Baggs, Dixon, Savery, even memory has forgotten them. The eastern most one drops like a cookie into the cold milk of Colorado. They're still fragrant with neglect & lost ranches, old timers safely spirited away in unruly frontier grasses, in unsavory graves. Baggs, my grandfather's town, my mother's town can't be lured away from the highway by obsolescence or death, every Wyoming cowboy has stayed or drank at the Drifter's Inn at one time in his mind or another. The lobby is red brick slick with snow. In the bar I order a beer, the highway to Rawlins is closed. I can't stay long. I've got people buried here.