There is a fog in the ravine, yet up on the hill is my Snickers: 16 hands tall.. prominent withers. He is so stoic, peaceful--
and he speaks without saying a word

The river draws lead up to my death,
and down to my death;  and so I stay here in this fog-- the Aspen leaves are turning, I can hear their leaves rustling in the wind, a nearby pheasant rooster's crow, the flushing of prairie chickens

the last sounds of a dying world

Snickers is interested that I am near him: here, on this tallgrass covered hill that he laid himself down onto  so many years, past. I am done here, I know it  

and nothing really mattered;

and everything there ever
was,   mattered.