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New Love, Late November, Upper Stilly

by Steve Quig

First snow on sparse
leaves of currant.
What were you expecting?
There are no prints.

River falls steeply
to green pool.
Sound of mud under boot,
such glistening

in the trailís ups and downs--
pockets of water and sky.
Darkness settles between
fir and hemlock.

Here in this deep canyon
winter has taken hold,
and snow whitens the high cliffs
that rise to cloud.

You could lose your way
as you wander,
lifting one foot
ahead of the other.

The beautiful mist closes.
What were you expecting?
You snug up the neck
of your parka, climb on.

for T

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