all the lovely notes fall like snowflakes, sound
in cascades like the wind behind this mountain
storm. lightning startles more in snow, closer
somehow for the closing front-range peaks, white
with winter and stark against the night sky,
revealed now in the snow’s passing. stillness
descending starker even, more poignant,
than the crisp clarity of thin air, heights
we’ve yet to reach lie before us, truth stark
as those pinpoint stars bright against sable
night — it’s enough to make one believe
in aliens or gods, angels and spirits . . .
owls hoot in the night as though affirming
the thought, perhaps itself a sort of angel.
David M Pitchford
26 Dec 2011