It’s almost midnight
and sun still polishes air
like rosin over bow.
The day stretches wider
than it’s ever been.
Night won’t come near
the scrub alders of the tundra
or the short grass
that’s been mowed by passing seasons.
Landscape bathes in this vast
iridescent wash
as if a lake of light
has overflown its banks.
A stream, flush with northern snow,
slithers through,
flecks the dreams
of the campers in their tents.
Its rhythm wakes the memory
of a distant herd of migrating elk.
A solitary eagle
hauls its shadow through camp
then off to higher ground.
Nothing in a sleeping bag
invites interest.
Early morning,
a brief dusk
will be nudged aside
by an emerging dawn.
No wristwatch
can believe what it’s saying.
— John Grey
Words and Pictures by 
Leave a comment