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Icicle Creek

Icicle Creek

leaving town at last

and running for the pass

the radio ringing out

“My Sweet Lord”

and it’s forest service dust

gravel rattling travel

and ragged high desert heat

roll all the windows up

even sturdy antelope

those sagebrush saints

can’t thrive long

on flatiron mirages

but marked on a survey map

there’s a reef of lodgepole pine

and a speckled trout stream

at the back of the undiscovered

so as the winds shift

and the lands begin to cool

I park and pitch a tent

at an undeveloped campsite

alone and deeply lonely

standing naked and old

I brace myself to the cold

and wash in “Icicle Creek”

—Donald E. Gasperson


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