Bluebird sky withholds snow,
streams play under hard shells,
and the lake is not quite solid enough
to hold the weight of a man.
We play perilous games on the surface,
suspended, waiting
for something to happen.
For the frozen flow of flakes.
Waiting for release
from the waiting.
We pray in white.
We wait for the flow.
Anticipate, like blood.
And we wait.
Waiting, wanting to ride free.
Frozen, not falling.
Not flowing.
Held on ice,
jump,
we
and
fall
ing,
arms,
like lakes,
c rrrr aa ck.
And we wait.
Skip winter, on to spring,
flow into summer.
Sweat glows on bare skin.
Donner Lake
not
quite
freezing.
A breeze from summer mountain summit
and laughter
free and splashing
movement and flow.
No waiting for weather,
for
roofs
to
slide
and ice melt to do its job on treacherous drives
that never,
ever
melt.
And we wait,
suffering from P.M.S.,
parched mountain syndrome.
