They’d ask you first: How much distance
to bridge this gap?

And then they’d lead you down
to the gullies where the bluffs
bare themselves to you.

They’d test your palms for blisters,
read each crease–crooked creekbeds—
press agate into your pocket.

Could you hold up under
their weight?

And if you’d let them,
they’d show you the dry creek
where the coydogs hide their bones
and how the limestone scarp lists upward
as palisades embrace the Kentucky River.

They’d show you hipbone
on sandstone–where many wild mouths
touched the salt-lick.

Even in a drought year
when the heart cracked open.
Even in the flooding season
when the Kentucky River forgot
and reforged its name.