NORWICH YEARS: BACK COUNTRY TOURING

BACK COUNTRY TOURING

The waxless skis whisper behind our backs,

Percussion brushes.  Our poles tap the beat

On the edge of the drum.  Someone has emptied a sack

Of diamonds over the thin crust of the snowfield.

The perfect steps of a fox cross the trail

Angling straight for a hare’s oval snowshoes.

Here where lumber crews have clear cut the swale

A trio of whitewashed peaks smokes into view.

Sapling birch bark is gnawed into curls by moose.

Bears have stapled claw marks up beechnut trees.

In sun-softened snow our glides are long and loose.

The downhill curves we take with thankful ease.

We savor the last mile of the river’s edge,

Remove our skis and cross the covered bridge.