I just read Megan Snyder-Camp’s beautiful book of poetry, Wintering, which grows from her exploration of the Lewis and Clark expedition, a topic I’ve also worked with.
A short taste:
“Last night, reading, I heard the geologist tapping on my window. For your poem, he said. Outside, the moon near full. As my eyes adjusted I saw a faint white circle etched in the sky, so wide the cedars nearly hid it. A hoop for the moon, a saucer. Spill of its yellow milk. Or say it happened
this way instead, without the geologist: I was bringing toilet paper from the car when the night sky lightened. Arms of white, I saw where the moon, like a leashed dog, had paced its dark yard bare.”