Where the road switches from asphalt to dirt
we stop in the dust to photograph.
Not what you’d call a neighborhood,
the Superstition Mountains.
Just the dry torture of canyon peak
canyon peak canyon peak.  North
flow to Salt River.  You lean
into the viewpoint all grin and bluster.
fuss with your hair.  There’s heat and
then there’s heat.  And—then there’s heat.
In the gully bottom we’ll move slowly
past brush and rusted barbed wire.  Flash of two
who’ve scraped against one another
through the arc of day.  It’s left scratches. 
Tell ourselves it’ll be a real stream at Fish Creek. 
Enough for a cool-down wade through pools
past narrow shelves.  A few cascades, a gravel flat.