Sometimes travel takes us to "thin places" - a mountain, a bookstore, a forest, a shrine –I make my way down Red Fish Canyon,
where the sublime bends low. ~ Eric Weiner
shins protesting the sharp dissent.
At the bottom, the lake laps
at the lowest branches
of the cottonwood trees.
Mid-March the smell of mud
and last fall’s leaves fill the air.
Dark-bottomed clouds sit right on the treetops.
I take a long pull from my blue
water bottle. Your image sways
between wisps of vapor dancing
across the lake. A hot, steel blade
of excitement slides down my spine.
You wear that green and white plaid
Pendleton jacket. I catch a whiff
of campfire smoke and whiskey.
Hemingway’s whiskey you’d always say
although I can’t remember why.
After we’d set up camp, you’d sip
a Seven and Seven, raise your glass,
toast Muddy Waters as the rhythm rolled
from a mix tape of sweet soul,
dirty blues. You’d lean back
in your chair by the fire, sigh,
This place just puts me whole.