WINTER BACKPACK
Tentative fingers of dry sleet
Tap on our cheeks in the twilight.
We tie our tents to tree limbs
And cook by lantern light.
White moths tick on nylon.
We sleep away the dark
And wake to clarion sunshine
Domed by cobalt glass.
Our snowshoes write our thoughts
On unmarked pages twined
With notes of hooves and paws.
But when we pause for breath
And look up, we are skylarks
In a silvery-netted aviary,
By blueness mesmerized.
On the ridge we become giants,
Our heads level with rows
Of crystal-coated bonsai
And balsam bowed by snow.
Floundering down the mountain,
Our big feet swallowed in drifts,
We marvel at undulations,
Tide ripples sculpted by winds
Which roar that night down the valley,
Express trains passing our camp,
Reminding us of Himalayan
Climbers marooned in tents.
But these winds are siroccan:
They black out cities of stars
And brew a broth of fine rain
By the time we reach our cars.
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