Whiteout

Still green in the valley

grass flowing like the river

snaking away down the canyon.

A last memory before the winter.

Trail of rock climbing the South saddle.

Two hours and then downhill into the flats.

Time racing clouds and it's a bad bet

but, snow is in the air.

The sky lets fly and the wind screams.

Nothing to be seen except the white.

Weary, both man and horse

and a fool's errand to tempt fate.

Lay up in the bracken

surrounded by scrub oak.

Enough room for fire

and bed.

Demons howl in rage

riding the night wind.

Air filled with blue light

and pelting ice.

Morning brings numbed fingers

and tingling toes.

Slow getting a fire started

and bones creak with every step.

Nothing but white

the eyes hardly take in

the expanse of twisted trees

buried in the fallen ice.