Frizzled and wind burnt, we took
to our tent long before the stars
came out. Once again no Kuma.
Every so often he’d vanish on us.
Days would pass before he’d appear,
smiling, waving across the road. He waits
for a perfect blend of image and light.
On my bike, I’d picture him
under a tree, sitting and sitting
like Buddha himself .
And I’d feel my own resolve pulsing
like a pumpjack in a Panhandle field,
up down, up down,
tapping the well.