Tag Archives: Kings River


Early afternoon on the
way up the mountain,
the past phones ahead – says
she is Margaret, my dead
mother. Are we
too busy for a visit?

We can start anywhere,
hollering hellos and goddamn
profanities as pickup doors
fly open to handshakes and
hugs. How long has it been?

Mule packers, horse lovers
wearing outdoor eyes –
who’ve caught God
drooling at his easel
on every horizon, every
turn of King’s Canyon,
Rio de los Santos Reyes,

guffaw at our little bit
of Crown and Jack, got
one in the truck
, want
nothing, but help speed
the recycling of glass
– unscrew new jugs
to a list of things to do
before dark, up the hill
and narrow road, nearly
empty weekdays without
the caravans of Christians
and 4-wheel drive crazies
racing towards heaven.

We catch up with highlights
of kids and grandkids,
weddings and fencing jobs,
pick fruit, swap books
and make promises to
rivers of fish, to the future
trails we will cross.

                                – for Tim & Maggie