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.