Oak Springs Trilobite Site Recollected

Up out of the Joshua
And into the junipers
He drove, thinking it was strange

To still wish to see better
When so much of his best life
Came during failures and worse.

Was it follow through? Must you
Want more to savor this much?
Back down, now in cottonwoods,

Gray, gold, or bruised tangerine,
Tracing a stream’s skinny track
Through the long desert canyon,

Parallel an old rail line,
A capillary for freight,
There was no good place to rest,

And past the schoolhouse state park,
The pavement ran out, the dirt
Road corrugated and worse.

As he drove, he fantasized
A home in such cottonwoods,
Not because he wished for one

Or was deluded enough
To think settling in the woods
By a stream through a canyon

And listening for freight trains’
Moans and methodical clanks
Into the small hours of nights

When the dark skies held more stars
Than most humans get to see,
Or care to see, all their lives

Would hold him happy. He knew
He was contented enough
Driving through, fantasizing,

But that was his recipe—
Ordinary wandering
Fermented by pure whimsy.

He would never live to see
Long hours worth resavoring
Without craving more something.