It was raining but we went out on the
hill trail, anyway. You walked by my
side despite me. Our ankles and shins
jolted as we made our way down steep,
blackened hills—powder getting into our
shoes. There would be no snakes today,
which made our steps more sure. Sparrows
hopped instead of using their white-tipped
feathers, as if knowing they jumped right
in my path. I couldn’t fault them, even if
I tried. You were holding a picnic blanket,
tucked under your arm, and your other hand
held a flask. We passed over the burn scars
of cottonwood trees and shriveled manzanita
bushes and ashen trenches and pretended not
to notice. I heard it went around the cemetery
in the shape of a heart. The undergrowth
always comes back. Sprouts were already
peeking their heads out between charred
logs as dots of green. We followed once
the river, once the creek, now the dry
creek bed. Pale stones rush in the curves
that my eyes can’t help but follow. They
become speckled-dark as the rain patters
upon them. We keep going to our same spot:
just past the skeleton of a barn, through what
used to be a backyard, over a forgotten
fence and along the not-creek. The hills mist
over in a strange murky blue-brown as we
reach our destination: the char-crusted log we
tipped over at age ten, propped up on the steep
hillside. We took a seat beneath dry sticks for
a roof—they had withered so thin.
It felt nice to get out of the rain as
we shared a drink.