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Writer's pictureOlivia McCann

Snowshoeing Hut Trip Poem and Photos

Fire crackles finally

tuna fish swims

in the pits of our stomachs,

finally toasty,

their scales

fermenting against

the taste of whiskey

in a tiny bottle

made light for

the march.


The red and black

jackets are out

to explore, to move,

to breathe hot

in the frigid air hovering

over the blissful,

bleached, alabaster blanket

called snow

and the green and

happy blue jackets

stay inside

to stoke the fire

and watch the lovely drowning

of the pine needles

beneath pearls of ice

out the window.


The cabin creaks

and wrinkles with a smile,

its history, read

aloud by the front door

and lentils will cook,

orange and cheerful

with cloves of garlic

and other spices to

chase the soot from sinuses,

and we'll eat it later

over the sound

of rolling dice,

when the red and

black jackets

come back to spell the rest

of "ROAD."




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