Past Last Water Camp, my dog and I
wind up the north trail,
wading deep sprawls of snow
obscuring the way.
Left behind is my city job
and the softness of a woman at dawn.
Yet worries swirl
as I ascend through mist.
I cough a blaze onto the snow,
a shock of redness.
My lungs may be the end of me.
Route finding now, I enter a different land.
I hear a song burble across the slopes.
Unseen golden presence, Western Meadowlark,
healer and herald of the sun.
The sky lightens.
On the bright summit,
I stroke my dog’s velvet ears.
Gazing over endless lowland clouds,
I weep.
