SPACE
A man should (once a year
to get his head straight)
pack deep into the mountains up
tumbling rivers to the timberlines –
to the granite and the tamarack
to cook by. Damn few people
on the trails, damn little sign
of progress but for the night jets
and sputniks dodging stars,
or the sun glint of a bullet load
of humans crammed at the head
of fading contrails. A man needs
to breathe thin air and thunderstorms,
keep his counsel round a fire -
white hot coals feeding flames
reducing time to cold gray ash –
a place to be aware and go neutral.
A man should gooseneck the horses
to the trailhead – pack saddles, food
and gear and go a couple of days in
and stay awhile – get small, get
perspective, watch time roll
downcanyon with the river
doing nothing, but
there’s no space
on my calendar
for sanity.