Hid like a mountain lion on a flat ledge
Over the duned trail. Ten years earlier
To the day, had passed through here
Full of hope and lonesomeness. Not here,
Not actually here, of course, but an echo.
The formation that looked like a camel
Loomed over a horse trailer full of llamas
Being readied as backcountry pack animals.
“What do you call a three-humped camel?”
Daughter’s friend asked her on the way
To school the next day, both of us back
In the quotidian, bathed and dressed
In clean clothes, autumn camping done.
“Pregnant!” Daughter answered in triumph,
Already knowing that joke. What do you call
Anything anymore? Time is a three-humped
Camel created by the committee for change,
Everlasting change. Back to that moment
On the ledge, the two-humped formation,
The llamas now loaded, the lonesomeness
Momentarily forgotten, the hope restored.
We are not done until we are not. Allow
As how the mountain lion hunts by ambush,
But don’t imagine calling it out by name.
The llamas ambled down the trail, grumbling.
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