Somewhere above Lincoln, Oregon
we head up an old logging trail
past manzanita and buckbrush.

Keep Out signs mark gravel driveways
nestled among the ponderosa pines, maybe
marijuana growers we’ve read about, guarding their crops

with AK-47s. For every Thoreau there’s an American
with a gun rack, you say. But we’re not
too worried. Our lungs woozy from the shallow air,

our foreheads dripping, we reach an altitude
where we can say almost anything to each other.
I tell you how I wept on a plane after an argument

with a church elder about higher education. You tell me
that no one from your church ever spoke
about your mother’s suicide. Suddenly

we see fresh paw prints in the reddish clay.
Out of nowhere two gigantic German shepherds
bound to our sides. Shaking and snorting

they shove their noses into our crotches.
I latch onto your arm. We quicken our pace,
feign a casual descent, our talk reduced

to a strained banter. The dogs, sans collars,
like oversized teenagers, playful and threatening at once.
At least we’re not riding down the switchbacks

in an ambulance. At least not yet, you say.
And then we spy the cabin driveway. We turn off
and the shepherds follow, increase their pace

to match ours. We clatter into the kitchen
and bolt the door, startle the others.
The dogs circle the house for hours.