John Calderazzo

 

Waking Up near Cameron Pass

 

 

Through aspens, Mount Richthofen fires up

three miles off with overnight snow the sky

will likely breathe back into itself by noon.

Its granite flank’s a shining tablet on which

I can inscribe the brand-new plot of my life,

provided I pay attention. My gift for waking

early to greet the morning.

 

Down here, though, the dark’s gone nowhere.

I sit cross-legged on a log, hands jammed in my

pockets, alpine grasses crunched low with  frost.

Who knows when a moose, or a wolf wandering

down from Wyoming, will shimmer out of

the forest.

 

I cup my hands around the hissing stove,

water boiling for coffee that will taste bitter,

but God, so warm. Ten minutes ago I wriggled

from the pocket of the zipped-together bags

where SueEllen sleeps on. I had no choice.

 

Call me crazy. Or ask, What’s the rush?

as my mother used to, when as a kid I’d

sprint outside  first thing Saturday morning,

then wonder why nobody was joining me.

What are they waiting for, I thought. What

are they doing? Don’t  they want to catch

The Show?