The scurry of prairie dogs and more earnest marmots'
munching across the Alpine meadow appear
blithe. And the mule deer, ambling into the clearing,
fearless, incurious even (it has seen
hikers before) suggests that peaceable kingdom
we may not believe in but yearn for still: we pause
to take in the mountains' breathtaking otherness,
the evergreen tang in the air, the white-noise rush
of snowmelt rivulets some clever set designer
thought might go just here. (Thus, we distrust
our eyes, our ears, the skin on the back of the neck
where the mid-morning sun assures us, as fond fathers
would their fortunate sons, that all is well.)
But mind is working — the prairie dogs and marmots
know, never forget, and forage faster
for the sound of that rushing water, the noise time makes,
the year's turning, the end of the food and warmth:
winter is coming. They are the ones, if they stopped
to look at us, frivolous, blithe, who would gape
at our get-ups' funny hats and impressive boots.
We do not hibernate; we do not migrate
up the mountain or down as the seasons change —
as if we were still in Eden, or has just stepped out.
David Slavitt