The blue Ford cocks up its front wheel,
a paw aimed to climb the clouds.
Then it comes down with a thump, the road
re-draws the sky, once again flat
against the earth as we bump-up the Jeep track
into the mountains, toward the high meadows
of Indian Farm.
The V-8 growls through the axles,
as smoke of burning rubber comes into the bed,
granite burning like basalt —
The girl cousins scream, the truck
looks to tip, fall down the mountain
but my father has the wheel —
under his hands it climbs sure.
I’m pushed deep into backpacks
feel boxes of mac-&-cheese against my face
then candy bars
which I steal, stuffing pilfered chocolate
into my cheeks, a painted squirrel,
chin dripping guilt.
It’s the beginning,
when we reach the cabin at road end,
we will continue the climb to sky on foot.
“Aquifer,” a chapbook-length collection of Isaac Timm’s poems, was published in 2025 by Moon in the Rye Press.
This story appears in the October 2025 issue of Deseret Magazine. Learn more about how to subscribe.