ODE ON INHERITANCE

4 9 R O D E O N I N H E R I T A N C E K A T E P A R T R I D G E It begins, as usual, with the narrative of water: a sudden spring on a dark slope, the ensuing drape of green. At the base, a kidney lake wrinkles in its skin. If this is a metaphor for faith, then it must be impacted by the next scene, where a great canyon weighs against cli√s cloaked in fire, perhaps a thick rain. I could describe the dense afternoon with the bicycle, the desert, the hail, the available tree, the decision: soak or wait. In this case, no one did. Would you believe me if I said, as I watched pellets of hail melting into my shirt, that it changed me? And when, just past the ridge, I saw the burn crouching through the valley, when I saw the bore marks driving into the ridges, that was when I felt the pockmarked future, the balance shifting from rock 5 0 Y to air. Remember, the water and its course have long ended. The hills cling in silence, while on their ribs, the assiduous trees sculpt themselves from their own embers. ...