Naked, sipping wine under stars among 
snowy mountain silhouettes, 
air so silent, so cold, 
our breath crackles coming in, 
then floats out in frosty clouds. 

Fully tenderized, we step dripping 
from hot tub to deck where fingertips 
on doorknob discover 
a.) frigid metal, and 
b.) locked out.
A self-locking door!
Towels and clothes left inside for warmth.
Barefoot in snow we try each window, and try again. 
Our bodies are steaming.

Already we shiver. 
“Maybe the neighbors have a key,” I say.
We are on a cul-de-sac of four cabins, 
all dark. Would they rise out of bed,
turn on the porch light and open the door 
to a man clothed only in goosebumps,
shaking, hopping ankle-deep in snow?
They could call the police
while we freeze to death
because where is the nearest cop
in the Sierra Nevada at midnight?
And what is the jail sentence
for public inadvertent nudity?

I fear frost-bite in delicate regions.
“I’ll have to break a window,” I say.
Triple-glaze, I see.
“Please be careful,” she says shivering, gasping.
“I’ll stand back and throw a rock,” I say,
and do, with strength I didn’t know I had
heaving a hunk of stone the size of a football
which makes an astonishing sound
like a gunshot of glass.

“Watch your step,” she says.
In the pitch-black I can’t tell shards from 
pine cones but at first footfall something 
pricks, draws blood, as a 
floodlight erupts from the cabin next door.
A young man stands in the doorway 
wearing only a sweatshirt (Nevada Wolf Pack)
while holding a baseball bat,
and then a young woman’s voice
from behind him says “Put away
the bat, Deion, and help them.” 
The woman steps out wearing flip-flops, 
a bathrobe, and says, “You don’t look like 
the bad guys. Come in and get warm.”

And that is how we meet our new friends
Deion and Kimani who are just normal folks
because, really, 
wouldn’t you do the same?