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Angie Minkin

Driving to the Sun with my Daughter


Glacier National Park, August 2005


I wanted grizzlies and the wild

on our last day of indigo air,

you wanted mountain goats and crowds,


carped with each slow step on St. Mary’s Trail,

refused the stream’s shout, the thrill of three

silver-tipped bears running faster than God.


I swallowed copper-harsh words as we returned

to our red Yaris, dwarfed by a herd 

of black Ford Rams, rifle racks locked and loaded.


Just to quiet you, I tossed the car keys in your lap.

I whistled as you sweated, the switchbacks

on the thin road thundered from granite, 


edged only with sky and waterfalls. 

We didn’t look down as we corkscrewed 

our way to the sun. You drove straight


to the skeet-shooting range in Kalispell,

where George taught us the basics.

I couldn’t hit even one of those clay birds.


Dead-eye accurate, you couldn’t miss.

As you yelled, Pull, I retreated, opened

my hands, silently offered you all my ammo.

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