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|Driving to the top of Mohawk Mountain|
a week before spring,
trees still stripped,
distant fields and snow still
Loggers have been working here
thinning the forest
for the younger trees--
so the "pardon our appearance" sign says
as if the woods were under reconstruction--
on the cusp of spring.
Driving through the woodchips,
around the logs stacked in same-length piles,
tires tracking through the sand
from a winter of tending snowfall--
up the narrow way,
above the tree line
where the March wind still howls
like a tamed lion.
The mountain top draws us in--
seeing in every direction
beyond what’s seen,
finding a point beyond which we cannot go
feeling the passion of a night bug
against the screen door
again and again.
I am struck by the silence
and air so crisp
it snaps like two fingers
13 Mar 04
© Copyright 2004, E. Granger-Happ, All Rights Reserved.
Contents - Lent, 2004
© Copyright 1997, 2018, The Fairfield Review Inc., All Rights Reserved.
Document last modified on: 03/21/2004