The tarantulas are back daring traffic
on a road-full of weekend buck hunters
and Christians working the same mountain.
Going thirty, I can dodge them if not looking
for coyotes in the bare flats where no calf
can hide—the plodding now less encumbered
if you are a hairy spider or hungry coyote
on no secret mission. Moving slowly, I try
to keep my dust down. Everything is obvious
long-distance—we all know why—but
close-up you may find what you once lost,
something dear you haven’t seen in years.
drycrikjournal 