Grizzly

A poem by my uncle about backpacking in Denali:

Thin

And, Flapping all day,

The north side

of this thin rip-stop tent

Goes quiet,

At midnight

And reddish,

From sunset...

Think of them,

As surrounding den’s’

a ground squirrel’s,

An excavator,

Tearing up the tundra,

Scooping aside Dwarf Willow chunks and peat,

Burrows left shredded,

Then eating them,

Juicy,

fur and all

Not washing paws

Not picking up.

Juicy.

Or

Head first,

Eating berries,

Leaves and all.

Then, asleep in their furskins.

Beyond us,

On the next gravel bench

Along side this quitting glacier,

Sheep eat the tundra,

Tiny willows and Drius and Labrador teas.

Then bed down

On their food

On their table.

Morning.

Sun’s been up for hours,

Wind’s up again,

Surrounding me,

Bowing the tent sides,

Like a bosom.

Caribou lope close,

Racks glance back:

“Man,

They go places for place.”

We should carry claws.