meringue mountains
the black peaks sport a smooth white mantle
glossy in afternoon sun
the texture of whipped egg whites
not yet baked to toasty brown
cornices stretch along ridges
like pulled marshmallow cream
from here the slopes seem airbrushed smooth
but put yourself there
stung by angular crystals
blasted by wind with nothing in its way
all sculpted and smoothed
by a chisel and hand
we’re too small to see
As you saw on the Rambles page, we went on a walk near Turquoise Lake yesterday. The shoreline was coated with lots of ice, providing several photographic opportunities, such as ice shards, minute cracks, and flowing water. Then, near the end of the day, we had a wonderful sunset, just above the mountains, providing more photos. Here are some of my best photos from both events.
in not-quite-spring
when the world is more
white than green
and the campground gates
still slumber
you and I
find a steep bit of sun
make ourselves stars
or corpses
either way
we bake on the boat ramp
like dough on stone
letting the photons
wave their way
into our bodies
to cook out the cold
keep death at bay
put some Vitamin D
-elight into each
preoccupied cell
Highlight the black block to find the answer
Q: What is the difference between teachers and trains?
A: Teachers tell you to spit out your gum. Trains say “Chew, chew!”
Yesterday I posted some photos of a pair of Pine Grosbeaks that visited our yard. The grosbeaks stayed far away, and I wasn’t able to get good pictures, but they returned yesterday evening and provided great views, mainly of the male, and I was able to get better photos. Here they are!
Highlight the black block to find the answer.
Q: Why wasn’t the guy able to get to the Burger King?
A: He couldn’t ketchup to the fast food!!!!!!!!
the little firs
after the sun
then sleet then hail then rain
snow thinks about moving on
leaving this patch of woods
lighting out for downstream parts
deciding, it transforms
grows supple energetic on the move
flows
buffs and magnifies
each once-mediocre rock
into a semi-precious find
that old stiff snow laughs down the mountain
singing a spring song
and at the margin
of each steep white-walled
cliff of reluctance
peeking out at the very edge of the melt
are the little firs
their small lithe bodies
bent but not broken
shrugging off winter’s frozen weight
straining toward summer
ready to make something green
from nearly nothing again
