Butler Wash

In the upper reaches of Butler Wash I drop
my pack on the slickrock, spread out
the sleeping bag, take off frozen boots,
make a boot-pillow for my head-heat
to thaw, I wake six, eight, nineteen times

in the night, I’m still awake when morning sun
lights up the Manti La Sals. I put on the thawed boots,
stamp my feet to dull the pain, and try to hike
enough in a nine hours to sleep fifteen.

In a shaded side canyon the snow evaporates
and refreezes on the sweet willows in a row
of fragile ice-crystal slabs that thin-tinkle when they fall
like dominoes, like the ancient ones who don’t know
they’re going extinct, they evaporate and refreeze

on the canyon wall. The setting sun doesn’t see
yesterday’s shadows creep out of crevices and cracks,
slide down a rock face, spread out
and fill the canyon. I drop my pack,
spread the sleeping bag on the canyon floor,

take off frozen boots, make a boot-pillow,
sit under a cottonwood’s bare branches and stare
at the rocks. I feel fragile, like the next domino
getting ready to tumble. My breath evaporates,
I don’t think I’m going extinct, but it’s on my mind.