TWENTY-ONE INCH CAMP

Over Franklin’s scree, down
the slick, snow-polished slabs of granite
where Snyder’s crew put fire in the hole—

rough purchase for horseshoes,
a string of packed mules tip-toeing
the steep head of Rattlesnake Creek,

a tangled wreck of loads and legs
postponed to a young man’s nightmares
once more kindling the hot blaze of fear.

Always snakes at Cow Camp
half-way to the Kern
where all but the nostrils of mules

gone under an afternoon’s current:
dally and spur to the other bank
for all to drip and collect their breath.

I woke to the bell mare in the dark,
headed upcanyon I tracked at daylight
across the river filling boots with snowmelt

twice, horses and mules
back across to meadow grazing
just to catch big rainbows.