Not Destined to be a Mainmast

Juncos dot the snow.
Salmon-fattened bears recede.

I mean I spotted tracks
on the ground headed away.

My glasses fog briefly with each breath.
Bare hands ask why no gloves.

Whisper (my dog) bounds
through the new growth cedars.

He sniffs reasons to dig
the earth bare.

We move up the valley
to that one cedar that survived

last century’s lumbermen
for unknown reasons.

If there were five of me
we could just barely link hands around it.

I see this cedar as the grandmother
of the valley.

This long walk through snow
seeks dating advice.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney

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