Pogue Canyon
In a younger, other life,
I cached my plews along the Siskadee
and boiled my traps in melted snow
waiting for spring to run wild.
Like the boney remnant of a tail,
a dangling DNA that spurns tight spaces
and authority, polite or otherwise
caged to submit to the majority,
my paternal and maternal predecessors
escaped West generations ago—
all odd ducks, genetic nonconformities
shaped by landscapes they learned
to adore. Apart from town, each
shrinking piece of ground has a history
of families adapting to progressive changes
in realities: fickle weather and faddish
politics without ethic or philosophies
that value truth or humanity.
I cache my plews along the Siskadee
and boil my traps in melted snow.
drycrikjournal 