Morning Down

Sitting in the doorway of my tent, I foot plow the snow away. In the sky red Canadian Geese fly into the setting sun. My flute is cold to my mouth, yet takes my warmth quickly as if it wasn't just wood. The she bear fat that I cooked down from the bear I found in the woods weeks ago has soaked into the cedar. I cannot feel it anymore with my hands. The wood is brought to my nose. Barely I can smell her in the red grain. I would be sad if I could not smell her at all. A candle is moving near me even though I have yet to start playing. I am traveling inside my head as I mouth my breaths onto oiled bloodwood. We linger here in the trees by a river that nobody comes to in the night snow. For tonight I am ageless. Notes glide down to the water where geese murmur as they tuck their heads deeper into themselves. I light sage, blowing out the flame. Heady curls go into the tent behind me. As if I chewed the leaf the taste of sage is around my tongue. More notes move to my fingers. I am careful with my spit or the flute will whistle, and pain. Then silence will come back with its own sadness I've heard enough of.

With the coming of zero degrees, cold is too simple a word. Wearinging everything I have with me, I know that it is bone against mussle. They are drawing straws as to which one to burn. Any fat I had is already ash. I eat a handful of cashews. They are hardwood. They take a long time to light so I wait. This is the first time I awaken afraid of losing to the cold. My breath has made everything in the tent heavy with ice. It has left me with nothing to swollow. As I try to sit up my head is a crazy man dancing in circles. I fall back onto the mat. when I was little we rolled down the hill in good clothes to get our little minds around this. Now there is not even a good penny in my belly to throw up. I wait for the cloth walls to level off. Everyhing takes so long in this denying air. My fingers are bones that have broken through my gloves. Mice I can not see are feeding on them.



Now I am down again waiting for the swimming to stop. Looking at my hard frozen socks, I check my pulse. It is a slight voice that is a whisper sound with no words. I need to drink water fast. The water I've slept with is shards of glass against my teeth. Sucking from the splinters of ice, the good pain opens my throat. My eyes are tears. I can do nothing. No words are allowed out of my mouth for they would only condem me. It is not the weight of this slide. It is the knowing that I will survive this, but I will be tried again in another court. A new line in the ice will be drawn. My blood will be colder. In my posssibles bag fingers I can no longer feel search for candy. The geese also begin to complain. I make it out of the tent. Falling I catch a hawthorne limb with my hand to save me. Spikes are quills through my hand in the only fatty places. The tissue around my right knee yells at me for twenty minutes. I am furious now. It warms me. the pain finds someplace else to go. Today I cannot say hello to the sun. Will I perish proving that I can walk this road? I consider my odds. My eyes want to cry, but I gather them together on things I can see,then close tightly. There is no reason not to. My body knows that I am lying before I do so. I say nothing. The condensation has gathered in the down bag. The sleeping pads are still less than half an inch on ice. Somewhere inside I'm told to pray but I am angry and sour. All the words in my head are not fit for ears.

Two miles down the road is a small shop that sells coffee. As always, it is a surprise. I plug myself for worring so. Even if I hated coffee, I would buy a half gallon just to sit down on soft foam, smuggling my sleeping bag out of my pack to dry. There is no desire in me to eye a pretty face. My hands are cupped paws around my cup. Slowly I float down. Again I can see the trees, the walk, the day.