Hours after the sun has set into these dark Cascade Mountains, hours after we’ve slunk Off to our scattered & weary tents that sag From weeks of wilderness living & these Endless days of rain & snow, I lie in a bag That reeks of earth & sap & bar oil & listen To the songs of snow against the vestibule. I wrap the heat of my bag tight around me, Wondering how this new crew is holding up In their cheap bags, wondering if they dream Of soft pillows, cell phones, & humming TVs to shepherd them to sleep after another Cold day in these green mountains of rain. I don’t blame them their dreams & as I shut My eyes, I dream to the cold music of snow & dream tomorrow—or the next—to when This bearded face may finally experience The warm rays from that barely rememberable Sun.
Sean Prentiss is the co-editor of The Far Edges of the Fourth Genre, an anthology about the craft and philosophy of creative nonfiction. He teaches at Norwich University and lives in northern Vermont.