Caravans of SUVs, militarily spaced in case one gets lost,
race up our pocked-marked and decomposing mountain road
on Fridays to Hartland and Hume Lake Christian camps
to thin, clean air and worship exposed to cedars and pines
only to return Sunday afternoons as if God were driving
irresponsibly—an ascension of modern day crusaders
sprinting with a gang of jeeps, retrofitted for climbing rocks
and spinning hookers in the melting snow, the whir
and hum of mud-grips from miles below. Always
casualties, strapped to the backs of tow trucks home.
drycrikjournal 