Gunnery Range Camping Poem by Stan Petrovich

It was illegal, but I and a buddy
Made camp on a gunnery range in Yuma County, in May
Of a certain year, when it was Already 115 degrees F., and,
At sunset, over the backdropp of some unnamed butte,
I watched a vulture carrying a snake in its talons,
High in flight.
That day, hiking alone to the south,
I stopped to take a drink from my canteen,
And looking up, locked eyes with a mountain lion.
She was watching me from atop a rocky ridge,
Only about twenty-five feet above,
And was indifferent.
The night was indifferent as well,
As we drank strong drink
And listened to an AM radio broadcast of a basketball game
From Phoenix far away. The Suns lost.
Insects divebombed into our cups and Stevie Wonder music played.
I had aligned the truck-bed with candles,
As I had previously aligned a cleft
In the scorpion-infested badlands of Anza-Borrega.
The Suns lost that one, too.