Holy Ghost Creek
A lucky orange dog with thick hair & red
bandana crosses the interstate near
not quite controlled burn smoke
hangs in the valley, low
leathery brown over the round
green hills all muddied together
like spirit bison.
Up the trail along the Holy Ghost to old
Baldy, ascending tiers of tiny pastures
fading yellow now
fervid with September asters &
the higher I hike
the burbling trickle of a creek
crosses me more than once.
I’ve imagined it
coursing through my veins,
a transfusion of headwaters
streaming in spring
cataracts down from a
treeless domed summit
& running away with the best of me
until it plows into the indefatigable
destined for the valley of
these summer burns.
Impervious old Baldy
the clouds build themselves about
his mastiff head in
no particular order;
there were herds of bison
down below the smoke once;
their spirit shadows drink from
the Holy Ghost, still.