Summer Dam

After spring snowmelt from Ephraim Canyon 
where Grandpa ran his eighty head in summer, 
the creek slowed and eased its crippled way 
down over gravel and stones, 
through corrals, past remnants of outhouses 
            and vegetable gardens 
into the swampy fields west of town, 
dry now in July and blanketed with a gauzy algal husk. 

We were not supposed to play in that water 
where it flowed under the wood plank bridge 
downstream from the grazing cattle 
and didn’t mean to until summer heat drove us 
            to squat at the edge 
just to poke at water striders with a stick . . . 

But when cool drops splashed our arms 
shoes came off, pants rolled up 
and we hefted, pushed, and wedged 
the rocks to block the flow and make a pool 
to satisfy our water lust; then, 
leopard-spotted with mud 
we hoped would disappear with the wetness, 
we headed for the barn to hide and dry. 

The phone rang in the old house 
without moving the dead afternoon air. 
A neighbor from downstream: 

Where’s my water? 

We heard the slam of the screen door, 
the stomp of Grandpa’s boots, 
an explosion of cursings. 
Peering out between shrunken gray slats 
we saw the horses sinking with each step 
into the murky, shallow sea our rocks had made.
Grandpa waded in, raging, 
flinging his arms as he kicked the dam loose, 
stumbling and falling from the force of freed water
while we gaped in terrified awe 
at the prospect of our own power.