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Poetry by Walt McDonald
Opening the Cabin in May
How lazy a month goes,
a smug, hundred ton boulder
that tumbled years ago. Cliffs
across the valley don't really doze,
but pose with British dignity.
Only geologists would know
if stones have changed position.
Decades ago, Dunraven hoarded miles
of mountains for a hunting lodge.
Even bears were startled
to see an Irish face up there.
Washington threw out his claim
like boxes of tea in Boston Harbor.
Elk and mule deer nibble slowly
up the slopes, fawns on the way
but not today, no predators to fear,
not yet, snow clouds drifting west,
cougars lying higher up the trail,
blinking as it starts to snow,
flicking dark-tipped tails.
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