Camp 4

The waters fall from mountain heights and crash,
With chasms wide and finger jams and cracks,
As timber rooted in the sky throws umbrage,
The valley's slumberers swoon of glacial mystery.

A time to nest in portaledge hauled thrones,
To breath in draughts of fabled mythic stone,
With juggy-jug-jug strained. Enough!
Now mecca calls out: sunny-side walk-ins welcome.

The polyurethane bundled men shiver,
As sighs do tease out tensions fraught taut,
And the satisfyingly safe-metal-clinks,
Now brews and laughs near butane, cutlery tasks.

But high upon the mountain men descry
Defleshed, entombed, down-parka-smothered bones,
As shadows grow o'er death-window buried souls,
O'er emboldened mountaineers with hoar-laden eyes.