Spokes scrape against jagged blocks of fractured chert

Scattered all along the riverbed

Vertical walls tower overhead

Fallen logs wedged in mud crusted rocks

Mossy

          Green

                    Slippery

A turtle sunbathes in one of their notches

Casting a wary eye on the intruder

Season’s flooding a memory

Water’s clear

Tepid and slow

Summer’s heat and dead air exacts its toll

The horseflies are merciless

Mules are cranky

Sweat pours off my neck

Nowhere for it to go in this oppressive humidity

Droplets tickle the backside

I pray for a breeze

Thank God for the cave

Buttermilk’s safe

In its cool dark damp recesses

The waterfall provides welcome relief

The mules stop to drench themselves

Right in the middle of the transparent sheets

Refusing to move

Can’t blame them

I join them for a spell

Before stepping into the cave’s steep entrance

A soft chill blows out from the dark passages

Its source perhaps miles away

Caverns are common as ticks here

Some connect

Some don’t

Swap out the buttermilk jugs

Sample the wares

Cool, thick, creamy, a hint of sour

God that’s good

Glad I don’t have to do this every day

The river bottom ain’t no place to be after dark

And it’s time to get moving already

As soon as I can convince the mules

Copyright 2011 Patrick Granfors