Blacktail Pass

You are herding a raft of tourists up the drainage.
I lag behind picking moleskin and gravelly gum dropped
in their amazement. They will lose cameras, wide-brimmed hats,
the usual left shoe. Anything smaller becomes part of the rock record.

I listen as you explain, again, the great unconformity,
how a quarter of the earth’s history is missing
between your thumb and forefinger. You thrum beaded black
strata as you mull over what this means.

My own unconformity is less than a billion years. It spans
two score and six cars, as many paying jobs. I watch you glow
in the deferred light of the sun, present as the Tapeats above your
bright head. Your eyes are more dark beads. Time resumes here.