The Ballad of Pickel Meadow

And the slide off Sonora has cut my head. And the curve in the highway. The tree line leans like a drunkard in bold piss. In all faze the beauty is at bloom. The Ballad of Pickel Meadow..
Down from Levitt Ridge, hardy whole is a fisherman gateway. Right off the bend. One can sense cars crashing head on in a turn of eternity. It being medicine. Bang, medieval. Pickel Meadow runs. When I first encountered the dirt spot I was unimpressed?! Cow shit, horse tracks and low water. But every few weeks I'd check back to her. Like all streams they grow on you. Melding their story. The mountain light changing every hour of invitation. The evergreens bold against the crest. The glow of the Sierra. Eventually the stream present. Glowered among skeletons. Salvaged in any way plausible. The fishing tempting. Terribly tough. BENT! The spin off 108 at curve's end. That's where we find perfect.