DRY CRIK Journal

I remember now when we rode together,
the rock atop the ridge in Buckeye
for serious conversations – all the trails

that lead to Railroad spring, the miracle
of water. Mallards rising from the cattails
on a cloudy Sabbath missing Sunday school –

real-live ascension, places almost holy
once you got there - got to get away
from duty and responsibility. Sometimes

a part of us is left behind like tracks.
It hangs in the oaks, sticks like colored
lichen to the rocks with others, places

that have drawn best thoughts together,
and we go there, revisit all the generations
who have come to feel the same thing.