Hard pull on a slow Sabbath,
the gooseneck rattles over boulders
cobbled in the canyon bottom
beneath the torsos of sycamores—
long tunnel of bare white limbs
over the quiet stream and track up
to brand calves, four crow miles
and a hoard of long-gone faces
waiting to climb aboard
on each curve, in every draw.
Memories stacked like pages torn
from a bigger book, we inch
as fast as you can walk, you say
at 76, breaking a long pause
since someone’s last sentence.
This is not Nevada, yet
this wild canyon craves
the company of humans,
the chance to etch another rattle
in our machinery, in the minds
of this annual procession
of neighbors with other lives
during the week. This is not
church, but it could be heaven.
drycrikjournal 