Diamond Ledge

Bicycling to Diamond Ledge
in summer glare, twenty miles
each way, I feel as adult
as I ever will, sack and pick
stashed in saddle bags, field guide
in my pocket.
One atom
of silicon, two of oxygen:
quartz, the common mineral
uncommon in the pristine crystals
I expect to collect.
Hide my bike
in the brush, hike to the site and crawl
the whole surface of the ledge,
discovering vugs the adult
collectors aren’t limber enough
to reach.
I’m not greedy: five
good specimens, three clear,
one smoky, and one a crust
of amethyst prisms glowing
with pride.
I pack my canvas bag
with care and bicycle home,
up and over Stafford Mountain,
the hot light igniting me
cell by cell,
sweat tearing down
my face, and the crystals packed
in my bag as beautiful
as I imagine angels to be—

beatific expressions catching
the glare and not just reflecting
but enhancing it;
so racing
down the six-mile slope to Somers
I stick out my legs and let go
the handlebars and satisfy
myself I’m actually flying.

(first appeared in Iodine Poetry Journal)