IN THE ALBUM

At the third switchback we pull off

where the honeymooners fell

and I step forth as always onto the peninsula of rock

to pose against a jackpine sticking out

of the cliff face like an arthritic finger

pointing to disaster. The sky is always

cobalt with thunderheads building

to the west, the pinecones underfoot, a jay

chattering and with my jackknife I carve

my initials once again onto the lodgepole.

There's a bottomless lake, an abandoned mine

with fool's gold and rose quartz. There's a child

making snowballs in July, bear sign,

a clawed tree, an elk in the mist of a meadow

and stepping stones across Rock Creek

where we fish for cut-throat trout.

The past preserved in photographs,

the falls in the backgroud, up close there's me

on a sorrel mustang about to lope off

into the rest of my life.

Eclipse