Weather at 12,000 Feet
We found the lake called Columbine,
blue glacial bowl, sky-lightened for a time,
and seeing it gave us hope enough
to locate and retrace prints our boots made
almost erased by falling snow.
One of us talked about his recent divorce--
he’d missed signs, too—then hadn’t the power
to stop. A rock unloosed goes its own way
until it comes to rest in a new place
such as that high, hummocked basin
we crossed, snow veiling the drab remains
of wind-bent summer flowers
as the whole sky turned metallic.
When thunder struck, we dropped our poles
onto the skree, watched pikas flee
to rocky dens, felt hands and faces chill.
We put on every layer in our packs
and, leaning together against one taller crag,
opened up a map to check the route, then
ate a few bites of wet lunch, ice
on the lips of water bottles. Guidebooks say
to pack warm hats, gloves, jackets, socks,
but we don’t pay what’s close enough attention,
don’t always stay alert for sudden shifts
or warnings like we saw on the way up--
gropple that was already dropping thick.
