Spiritus

On slender limbs, young aspen leaves
go dancing in their sequined gowns
while, swirling round like summer snow,
a blizzard born on cottonwoods
drifts gaily to the street below.

Bright-colored paragliders seek
the highways only eagles know
and, coasting placidly on high,
the golden birds look down and laugh
to see how awkwardly they fly.

Beneath small wavelets on a pool
a rainbow trout rests in the light.
Strange insect flitters in the dawn.
Concentric circles mark the spot.
The trout leaps up and then is gone.

Here, writing on my balcony
I watch the mountains’ changing moods
as on their snow-streaked amber heights
great artist-clouds paint changing scenes
in somber darks and brilliant lights.

The gentle breeze becomes a gale
that blows my poem from the page.
I gather up the bits and send,
on wings that fly through cyberspace,
the sorry fragments to a friend.

While there above the highest ridge
the sun-tipped anvils of the storm
have little use for such a pace
but, on the back of western winds,
move eastward with majestic grace.

(Published in Trails and Timberline)