There’s a place in Iowa called Slip Bluff Lake,
south in the state,
where the Mormon Trail came through.
You can take a little walk down there to the water,
from the rest stop,
through a gap in the fence.
You have to watch out for the horse droppings.
They call a lot of places ferries in Atlanta,
and someone told me once
they’re named after the guys who used to do the ferrying.
If you drive through there on the right misty night,
you can sometimes see them,
there in your mind,
there in their little huts by the rivers.
A deer galloped to my left as I drove away from Slip Bluff,
silhouetted against a sunset, harvested field broken up by its steps.
And I said to the deer,
as I’d said to the ferrymen in Georgia:
“Maybe this year.”
