Beaver Creek (For Carol)

The day has gone to embers.
Small sparks fly
and linger in the branches.
You and I        
as quietly as flakes,
are come to lie
at once and altogether
dazed with sleep.

It is the witching time,
a time to keep,
a rare time when in life,
like lambs or sheep,
we're shorn of worn experience,
shame and guilt
and hope
and all the walls that fear has built
to close us like a fist.

The fire tilts
and sparks rise up like flies.
A small owl sends
its call out to the heavens.
Coyotes blend
their yipping, yelping cries
as night begins
to sculpt half light with shadows.

Night sky pales
away from lights to blue.
The gassy trail
of galaxies turns milky.
Light breeze fails
to drown the sound of streams.
Small boulders roll
like marbles in the run off.

Once white snow,
so quiet,
is now noisy in its role
as harbinger of spring.
We nestle down
in nests of down and nylon,
free, unbound,
and oddly unprotected,

having found that there is no protection
from what is new
or comes on unexpected;
cannot sue
the universe or wind.

It's just we two
inside a tent where visits
from a bear
would be more than exciting,
though we're clear
the greatest threat is skunks.

Each night we hear
the raccoons fight like demons
over cans
that once were full of beans.

We understand
enough to stay inside.
There, holding hands,
and after making love,
we lie and talk
until the stream flow calms us
and the thoughts
we locked inside our heads
emerge to rock
like boats in quiet waters.

When we come
awake, surprised at morning,
see the sun
pick up where moon left off,

where streams still run
like trains upon a track,
all purpose gone
except to keep to schedule
and keep on,

the light is warm and lovely
and we're young
and glad for resurrection.
Love may fail,
but here, just for a moment,
dawn prevails
and pauses like a postman
bringing mail.