Not a soul in sight,
forty-eight lonesome hours
don’t bode well for ten-day solo hike.
Chill wind blowing, incessant, mournful,
howling like an incoming mortar round
or gut-shot boy,
nature’s response to approaching cold front.
Time to start campfire,
smoky wafts of Lodgepole pine,
warmth and light
loneliness disappearing like smoke
over Templeton Meadow,
mountain of same name bathed
in evening alpenglow.
As I type these words,
ghosts and demons hover,
awaiting my signal for
tonight’s haunted dance to begin.
I build up the blaze, ready now
to share fire and light and warmth.