chinook

warm wind crawls down the winter slope
wooded birch, spruce,
alder and willow
the furrowed, quilted earth
a place to nest,
hibernate or retreat
can't help but think
of the old trappers
hunkered down
in tiny cabins
--along stalks a moose, stilted--
chewing, sharp tiny forks,
this as i write this poem
looking out the window
into the blue lanscape
he dissapears back into the forest
the noble buck