A Summit Morning

 

Seven a.m. brought 

A haze of gray over the mountains, 

Sweeping in like breath from the nose of Zeus, 

Masking the peaks, 

Nestling into the valleys, 

And settling on top of their tents, 

Those bright patches of marigold, cobalt, and lime 

Staked into Bear Creek Meadow, 

Incubators for the hikers 

Their backs finally free from the shackles 

Of a forty-six pound pack. 

Snuggled now in goose down cocoons 

They sleep off bruises, aches, and grudges 

From yesterday.

Outside the thunder grumbles

And impatient clouds

Spit droplets

Ahead of schedule.

Groans of various pitches resonate in camp 

Twenty-four eyes now open 

Wishing they weren't, 

Wishing bedtime wasn't twelve hours, 

Seven miles 

Away.

Slowly, 

One at a time, 

Like snails emerging after a rain, 

They wiggle from their pouches of warmth, 

And, 

When they are brave enough, 

Unzip the flap door, 

Reach for the boots, 

Still waiting outside.

meghan paige fleming

1999