Cony Creek

Along the spit and slap and musical

parachute of Cony Creek

I guess at seven miles more

down trail to the car. Wind, sea green,

splits to an idiot crowd chasing itself

over Snowbank Lake. In warps

and grovels these timberline fir

live on their knees to its weather.

Up here the other weather is rock.

Each minor ridge slabbed with trivia

20 feet thick makes me immense

and nil wherever I look.

Watching it holocaust, I rub

my mind on the stone.

Mountains blow out of the ground

millennial inch by inch.

Goats in their high heeled shoes

nibble common prairie flowers, riding them

all the way to the top.

Eons to adapt.

Settling my pack's aluminum frame

I nap. For 45 minutes,

maybe an hour, the only sound-this wind

carrying smooth as alluvial dimes.

Centuries off in my bones

a granite flute, practicing notes.