Smoke Creek

This road came into the valley ages ago,
it comes east out of Wendell, bends around
the nose of Saddle Point, and wanders along
the north side like it has no purpose.

This road is an old man, he reaches the ridge
at the east end of the valley and can't decide
which way to turn, so he turns both ways,
south to Sutter Beach and north to Smoke Creek.

This dirt strip is a history, a swarm of ruts
mark a patch left soft in spring, soft contours
lead in and out of the dust hole,
a scattering of dimples and lumps evokes horses,

pronghorn, jackrabbits, an old wheezing bull.
Uncle Billy cranks up his grader
and gives the old man a shave,
trims the stubble of history,

scrapes off the ruts and washboard,
gets ready for next year's swarm of dirt bikes
and pickups, a scattering of tracks. Weather's turning cold,
this old road's going to rest under a snow blanket

until spring migrations come into the cottonwoods
at Smoke Creek and wake up the desert.