Slowly gazing

up the bare slope

of Tim’s Hill

I see to the east

a copse of charcoaled

stick figures.

 

Frosty mantles

like mink stoles

drape the landscape.

 

Moaning shrilly

an icy wind

sweeps down the pass

attacking me

like angry apparitions.

 

My breath is ragged.

 

Clouds of fog

from my hot breath

surround my face

as chill February drafts

sting my face and neck

like razor studded pebbles.

 

Ignoring the cold

against my warm skin

I remove my gloves.

 

Fumbling

inside my inner jacket.

Grasping my old

but trusty digital camera.

Now to position it.

Trying not to shake,

flicking the panorama button.

 

Mostly white,

the snowscape differs

in shading.

 

Gray white sky

against bright white snow.

Drifts

like bone colored desert dunes

imprison

summer’s artwork

of  rock spattered greenery.

 

Whiskery hoar frost

hovers over tree limbs –

fairy lights that dance

above faint shadows.

Click.

A few more times

just in case.

Click. Click.

Stowing the camera…

donning my gloves

as my teeth rattle.

 

My nose runs.

Turning in place

I stare at my tracks

wondering why.

 

Thinking of the crackling fire

back at my cabin

my weary legs fumble

their way back down

to the memory of shelter,

food and warmth.

 

.

 

 

WTO 1/6/12  From Waysides Along the Journey 5