We stopped in Rexburg once,
to get gas
on the drive to Yellowstone.

As we proceeded to the highway,
there were water-skiers
on the pond.

Wyoming was frigid.
We almost lost our way,
the darkness enveloping
with only dim lights
and engine hum to encourage the
press forward.

Pine trees hadn’t regrown
from the burn
years before.
Fires that had turned Utah dusk
into brightness of sunset.

My legs prickled
to the touch
after a morning
around the paint pots.
I had worn shorts in May,
a fool’s mistake.
My skin so cold
it felt hot
and only time blanket-wrapped
was a momentary cure.

I saw a moose
run in the rain.
It trotted along,
soaked fur
and thin body revealed
beneath the majesty
of large antlers.

I wished I could ride Old Faithful
away from existence.

its 130 feet of power
every 94 minutes.
I was stuck as an observer.