Sonnet: Kennon Road

Camp 1 is base, as its name implies--- the point
              where someone first took a pickaxe to the soil
to build the road that still snakes up from dusty
              lowlands, to mountains almost barren now of pine.
Corkscrew turns and sheer drop of gorges along
              the way; down below, the Bued River's unquiet
gurgling. Seven more camps to mark the places
              where work crews stopped: waiting for supplies,
for weather and skirmishes to abate. The last time  
             I made my descent from that city forever  
sketched as blueprint in me, the roads were better paved
             than I recalled; but I looked in vain for the falls
resembling bridal veils, their rivulets thinned or desiccated,
             the rock face riven but dry as memory not often visited.

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