Preceding the spontaneous flop
of the season, it is the intent of movement.
It is no meditation, no conscious thought ,
but a wicket rhythm, the comb
of all that is first and dominant.
It is some minor pack dog
snapping at the harness of the blue
and browned-eyed Husky up front.
The one you dare not turn your back on.
And here is where
the wave is rode, these undulating,
seductive drifts of snow punctuated
with troughs of sunshine, of crocus.
Monotony salted hope
in slabs of pemmican wrapped
in deerskin and wedged to warm under the arm
of one who believed this type of winter
could eventually end if only
given enough intent.