On this hill that sails tamarack woods,
my shoulders are a clove-hitch ache.

Thirst overflows our calves,
we portage the camel bone it’s made
that slowly says, along the way, this
is a rough bowl
hand-sewn by hands
that still would like
to drink.  

Like everything at 53, even the thirst
is heavier, the creek in the palm
of the valley,
as I climb,
overflowing with leaves of air,  
a little stonier, the darkness of it
shouldering creases of light.