On walking the Escalante in August 2000

My old dog and my young dog bound up the stream,
joyfully sprinkling me with their wiggly-wet bodies.

I walk, testing the streambed for rocks,
squinching my toes on my flip-flops,
wary of losing them to the current.

My young dog falls in a murky hole, sinks,
struggles up gasping to the shallows,
then tears off down the bank like a freed banshee.

My old dog laughs and chases her with a stick
which quickly gets caught in the willows.

Resting under a high sandstone arch,
we share soggy kisses and a sausage sandwich.

I feel rich with the desert sun on my neck,
as we splash the rippled red-rock reflection
my hands drip diamonds off the fingertips.