There is a reckless 
and irreverent wonder
when all is smothered white.
I love that cloaked in feel
the unpredictable loss of control.
When schedules are wiped clean,
battles buried. And in a breath
all mechanical dies.
In that instant, darkness
plunges day back 100 years.
When reading by lantern light
wasn’t inconvenience.

Fifty years of experience is brewing
in my backpacking stove.
The warmth of mugs, the savor
of chocolate and coffee,
and the crackle of fire
are magnified.
In this shell of our house
we enjoy a different life
hoping it will last
awhile.
                        

There is a reason Idaho rhymes with snow.
It stakes its claim any day and selfishly
remains undecided as to when and if 
it will give up its hold.

In those tiresome days before it decided
when snow forts were dirty clumps
and the ice rink puddles of slush.
I looked to the boxelder tree
in the pasture across from our house.
It sprawled like a spider over
the irrigation ditch and kids could
bridge from side to side if one dared.
When the Evening Grosbeaks arrived
they feasted on the winged boxelder seeds.
I was caught up in wonder, they were only
three or four feet above me. They reminded
me of football players, with their chunky yellow
shape and black helmets with yellow horns.
Their horns and vise-gripped beaks,
made them serious looking birds.  And they 
were serious about crunching seeds.
I didn’t realize then, their visit 
was a condescension, their hunger
allowed them to put up with me. Boxelder
seeds were convenience food, food to fuel
their flight to higher country.

It would only be days until
my father was spading the garden
and robins gleaning grubs and worms.
And I would bike up to the foothills
and forest, and like the grosbeaks
I would look for feasts.