Twelve Mile
twelve miles of useless... road
if you want to call it that
so washed out, rutted, and rocky that
usually you drive around it
three beers to go such a tiny distance
hay meadows across the creek
always teaming with deer
so incredibly flat, those fields give you hope
that the world can be restored
to some semblance of order
after the twists, turns and tilts
jolting you every which way
rocks tumbling down on it every day
lurking for oil pans and tires
idiot's reward
to be stranded miles from civilization
with no cellphone service
and no ranch house to bother
"if you don't know what you're doing
stay off roads like this" a sign to that effect
greets you at the very beginning
you don't even have to read
to understand
its in symbols
indicating high clearance required
and steep grades to climb
but who reads the signs
funny how my grand-kids always swear
"grandpa's trying to kill us." every time
we go four wheeling (or snow drifting)
but once reached, they love the destinations
twelve mile is the best, and I wish on this
cold November day, I had never moved away
it's where I need to be today
if you make it over the treacherous hills
and through the bottomless dells
you drop right into the creek
where the moon ripples on gently tumbling water
sometimes as deep as fender wells
steam rises from it like smoke in
bouncing yellow headlight beams
last part is scary deep
climbs a steep bank to get out of the water
if you try to avoid it, big alligators you can't see *
will shear your undercarriage and pop your tires
you just have to go hard
bang over that little cliff and up the last rise
where granite spreads out flat like marble
and there are three natural bowls hallowed out by--who knows
ancient glaciers? mystery to me
but a burning spring from the canyon wall feeds the pools
nestled against the cliffs... the first one is the hottest
you can feel the heat flowing from its source
too hot for tender skin but well suited for my old leather
I languish there for hours, often alone
basting my aching bones and tired spirit in restorative heat
eagles nest further up
you hear their shrill cries, but really--nothing else
a few chipmunks skitter by looking for picnickers' crumbs
but it is mostly me, the trees and the tender wind
up to my neck in nature's luxury
today, I lie here with a sore throat, bone chills and fever
in need of a good soak, and I'm tempted
to get in my truck and drive a thousand miles
but this is as close to making that journey as I'll get
that was home, this is home, and the r.v. is home, too
home's so big to me, I don't have one
alligators are jagged rocks
Copyright © Steven Young | Year Posted 2022
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