Whoopup Crik

You might think laughter spilled and tumbled along its riffles and rocky banks: the product of an old coarse and crusty joke perhaps. It’s telling done with such vigor some poor unsuspecting soul suddenly burst aloud with guffaws and wrung these very waters from the rocks. 

But it’s no ordinary creek or niche, it looks as if a long-gone giant cut himself the largest wedge of sandstone cake and left the wetted cleft behind.  What founted spring slakes these babbled rocks? I only know that water's flow no matter how divined, and are most welcome on this parched Montana plain.

Come branding time on the open range with no fences and no pens, the creek will cradle the spring’s crop of wandering stock at their fated destination. Ranch men whoop and holler, hat-slapping thighs chase bawling calves to the funneled crotch, to wait wild-eyed yet unmarked. 

Their pyres made: the ritual began for hands and countless calves alike. They together smell the pungent reek of burning hair and hear the sear of the hot iron's brand. One by one released then quenched by the water on their exodus from Whoopup Crik