November camp
we wake slowly
emerge from our bundled nest to
breathe in the chill before
the sun breaches the ridgeline
high on the hill, leaves
lie still under
the first slight snow that
softens all contours
smoke from the fire
swirls in slow circles
leafless branches gently scratch the
flat, pale grey sky
Click on the photo to see a larger version. It's worth it.
posted by MB at 5:43 PM
23 Comments:
The sky had an itch.
Beeeeeeeautiful!!!!! Such a great way to spend Thanksgiving.
It seems well worth it to abandon your roof if it leads to poetry like this.
I was hoping to see a photo of where you were! Rugged country.
Your poem shows beautifully how intensely alive an experience like this makes you feel
Pilgrims at the river, drinking in winter's beautiful bounty. A lovely Thanksgiving, indeed. Thanks for sharing.
beautiful.. i like the spontaneity in your poems!
Glad you're back! Man o man, that pewter stream. Lovely.
Also like the poem-bit about smoke swirling in slow circles, alliteratively spot-on. Must have been a nice windless moment, as compared to my last campfire activities which basted me in smoke no matter where I went to sit.
;-)
Looks like a beautiful place for Thanksgiving. I can't imagine a scene less like the classic Norman Rockwell. Truly spectacular place to give thanks.
You capture that moment perfectly!
Nice looking creek. I take it you weren't trout fishing, though?
sounds like a wonderful way to spend a holiday.
and that photo... something oddly familiar about it...
Zhoen, maybe the same itch we did?
Pat, thanks, it really was.
Patry, thank you very much.
Bitterroot, it does.
Sky, thanks for looking in.
Charlie, we had a canvas wall tent with a woodstove plus a campfire. Not to mention warm bodies. There was enough heat. ;-)
Lee, thanks!
Sharanya, I'm glad my poems come across that way.
Lori, the wind at night certainly blew the smoke and sparks about. But the morning air was relatively still.
Robin Andrea, it was a great place to practice gratitude.
Fred, thanks. Some poems seem to be message poems, and some to be moment poems.
Michelle, me too. I keep going back to look again — and I was there!
Dave, that ain't no creek. That's the South Fork of the Salmon River in the fall. Check out that high water line! No trout fishing this time, but folks were fishing for steelhead. I don't care to get wet this time of year.
Polona, "something oddly familiar" — isn't that funny how that works? ;-)
My comment yesterday seems to have disappeared, so belatedly want to say again how fantastic this scene is (ice too?!) and glad you had a wonderful break!
Thanks, Marja-Leena! No ice, it wasn't that cold. Just the reflection of a grey sky on broad water.
All, Dave has explained to me that in his part of the country a "creek" is bigger than a "fork" — It seems to be the opposite here, where the term "fork" is commonly used to describe a significant arm of a river. (Notice I avoided using the term "branch" lest I further confuse things!)
Oh - how your photo makes my feet itch to be out walking :)
Thought that might be the Salmon River --- beautiful!
Endment, thanks! It is indeed the Salmon River (though it's the Main, not the South Fork as I said earlier).
Nice poem. I haven't camped out in many years. Morning is such a joy - the fresh air, woodsmoke, everything so new.
Leslee, thanks. The irony, I suppose, is that I'm not much of a morning person. It is a beautiful time of day, though, I wholeheartedly agree.
I can smell the fire and hear the water babble...welcome back!!
It appears that you have softened, too.
Corey, thank you!
Mermaid, one thing wild places are good for is getting out some of the tightness.
I love morning less in the winter-it's just the darkness gets to me-at least I don't live at the pole where night is six months long-lovely poem
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