Holy Road

by Bruce Morton

Through shadow and light, U.S. 191 wends
As we pilgrims steer through the canyon,
Driving against current as the Gallatin 
Flows down, recrossing, cross-stitching

Together this gorgeous cleft, tempting eyes
To cheat the road—the rush of cold water
By or over House Rock bids welcome
As it froths farewell, rock cliffs spire, aglow,

Blue, dark water conjures the Mediterranean
From Spanish Creek, flowing from nowhere
To Hyde Creek, peer up at the Storm Castle,
Baptist Camp anticipates Hellroaring Creek,

On up to Greek Creek, Big Sky, where the rich
Pour their excrement and disdain into the river
Where algae blooms, a perennial bouquet, then
320 Ranch tourist buckaroos roughing it in style.

Comes Black Butte. Then, there it is, Yellowstone.
Earth fumes and bison chew on the sight of us,
Pawing the earth, enduring yet in spite of us.
It is a holy road—lean shoulders, white crosses.