The Quarrel
Climbing in sullen silence past treeline
where blasted spruces drunkenly incline,
we stumble on two racks of caribou.
Clasped in a deadlock neither bull could break
they bleach beside a frigid Yukon lake—
amateurs who never locked horns with you.
Destruction Bay, Yukon
Return to the Beartooth
Each year our packs grow heavier
and glacial torrents deeper.
Cutthroat trout are savvier
and switchbacks steeper.
We have outgrown our ardor.
Nights are colder,
groundbeds harder,
and the lovers on the shoulder
of the mountain older.
Climbing in sullen silence past treeline
where blasted spruces drunkenly incline,
we stumble on two racks of caribou.
Clasped in a deadlock neither bull could break
they bleach beside a frigid Yukon lake—
amateurs who never locked horns with you.
Destruction Bay, Yukon
Return to the Beartooth
Each year our packs grow heavier
and glacial torrents deeper.
Cutthroat trout are savvier
and switchbacks steeper.
We have outgrown our ardor.
Nights are colder,
groundbeds harder,
and the lovers on the shoulder
of the mountain older.
