Alone in the Mountains
Sun loiters behind sugar pines,
Tossing feathery stripes on the cabin
As one last grasshopper flits from the gravel
Dragging its raspy whisper of winter
Through the crisp air of dusk.
Inside, on the kitchen counter,
Four narrow trout I landed
This morning from the bone-cold
Feather River lie ready for the grill.
On the deck, nursing my first cold amber ale,
I tease splinters from my fingers
While overhead, fat wasps pulse
Against the shingles, drawn
By the pools of warmth
That linger under the eaves.