Deer Creek
By Ron GreenI inhale
the heavy scent of juniper
pollen—
a thick inaugural fragrance
of summer vacation—
wheeze through pinched breaths,
nose draining like the close peaks
his little calves flex
scampers up exposed granite on the trail,
I watch his muscles mock adolescence,
I see him
as a man for the first time,
sweat glazing the back of his neck
—he has discovered an argyle nest
before I arrive, a baby
snake coiled and hunkered
into its first duel, holding a stick, he pokes
“can I pick him up?”
I demonstrate caution—put him piggy back,
step wide around the
camouflaged rattler
—alone with the sun,
after the second mile, I wonder
when will the hike bite
him and he’ll want to
turn back.
no longer asking if every wild
flower is a columbine
my neck is burned and my bad knee
rattles with loose bits of bone.
As I sneeze he points out every
single
yucca
