Steens

When we left Medford it was nearly a hundred degrees

and we were hungover, packed tight into your little

Toyota, the one that grew sprouts in the

trunk when it rained.

Kip had drawn us a map of hot springs...

here a cottonwood, there a hole in the fence,

look for the steam.

In the driveway, Matt pointed a finger

in the air to where two redtails circled.

The next day we got to Pike Canyon, a hail

was falling

so cold my bones felt like rocks.

We napped in the cave there, shivering in

sleeping bags.

How can it be this cold?

How can my hands not

curl up?

When the weather cleared a little,

we watched from the lip of the cave

as a mountain lion crept

paw to paw to paw to paw

up the other side of the canyon.

The road was like mud soup

skidding along, trying not sink.

The windshield wipers didn’t work

so I leaned out the passenger

side with an

old black

tee shirt for a mop.

The next day the sun came out,

and we hid in our tent on the playa,

listening to wind

rustling the sage.

How can my skin be this dry?

How can my fingers feel like garnet sand

paper ripping itself to shreds?

When the sun hid behind the mountain,

we sat around the hot spring saying nothing

just watching the little bubbles

floating up out of

a boiling red pool

so deep

like the end of a long liquid

hair, rooted way

down

there.

Walking in the mud with backpacks on,

we came to a wide shallow pool

a few skeptical cows

When the footing worsened

and the cold water sent our testicles scrambling

back into themselves,

I don’t remember who yelped first.

Sunset in the Sheepshead,

the long frozen roll of the

Steens,

the world nightly

remade

frozen in fault block

wave.

Steam from a cup of tea,

the moon rising full in the gloaming,

I said, you see those little tiny clouds, they mean more

rain tomorrow and you laughed.

Good for you!

Never one to swallow authority.

The next day, it rained.