From the road,
the Brazos Cliffs rise up suddenly from the valley floor,
as the mountain falls away
and leaves brown, gray rock
exposed like broken bones.
I imagine being the first to trundle up the hillside in furs
with food,
and stepping up to the ridge and looking out
and down:
2,000 feet.
On the valley floor,
we step on fresh powder,
watching the snowshoes sink
and then support,
creating rectangular tracks
as we dart through leafless Aspen, Douglas Fir, and Blue Spruce.
Only the wind, the occasional jet overhead,
and the occasional trucker applying their “Jake Brakes”
breaks the silence
and squishing snow.
In the cold,
we pass around the tuna fish sandwiches
and watch the storm settle into the valley.
As the wind blows the snow up around our wrapped faces,
we pull the gloves back on,
strap our feet in snowshoes,
and head back the way we came.
Watching football
seems like such a waste of time.
Responses to “Weekly Poem: Thanksgiving Day”