Miles of land without people...

I posted a fragment of a Richard Hugo poem here last summer, but his work was good enough that I think another one is definitely in order. This is the final stanza of "Driving Montana," one of my favorite Hugo poems:

Tomorrow will open again, the sky wide
as the mouth of a wild girl, friable
clouds you lose yourself to. You are lost
in miles of land without people, without
one fear of being found, in the dash
of rabbits, soar of antelope, swirl
merge and clatter of streams.