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.