Blown
Away
We
stack beach chairs, duffels, and a shovel
On the roof of the car.
The early morning bleeds
Through the smog above us
Spreading an intense sheet of orange
Over the cool gray of the dying night.
“Got your canteen?” someone asks
As they twist past me
Carrying a pair of old army duffels
From World War Two.
“All set? O.k., we’re off.”
The tan Ford
Rumbles down the road,
The clank of a back tire fills the car.
We force our tired minds
Through the lists of things
We could have left behind.
Finally, the silence is broken,
The tire’s rhythm forgotten.
“Ready for a camping trip?” the driver asks.
Slight crescents form on our faces
We give a polite smile,
Our heads turn to the windows to see morning light
Progressed into a sharp yellow
That cuts the curves of a bulky mountain
And sinks icy shadows
Deep into the crevasses and dimples
Of the tall giant.
I lean my head against the seat rest,
Close my eyes,
And hear nothing but the
Highway drifting past
As the car draws closer to the distant,
Vast desert
Where we will unroll our sleeping bags
And listen to the howl of a coyote
Echo off the curtain of stars
Above our heads.
Jesse Rhodes
Fall 2002