Winter
By Aynne Campbell

The valley floor lies next to the river, both of them sleeping and dreaming warm dreams: soft dark earth, warm deep water, they lean against each other for comfort, exchanging green memories. Tall cottonwoods shelter the river from the occasional white onslaught thrown down by the mountains as the storm signals its intent. All will be covered, all will be white ice, grey wind. The cottonwoods lean into the tossing pines, moaning softly, nodding to each other as the fallow fields throw up small sacrifices of soil to the wind, bargaining in vain for postponement, for more time.

     

Roger Wade

High above, on the frozen granite, white flurries sing songs of howling, using the same thin voices wolves use to keen their dead. As the storm screams down out of the North, causing temperatures to drop rapidly, small rocks break off the high canyon walls and fall, sharpening the sound of the wind.

     Far below, in the deep trench torn apart when mountain ranges split, the magma fires glow, banked for winter, radiating slow heat. Saying to the mountains, Remember warmth, remember heat, do not fear the harsh ice that cracks your summits, that splits your sides, for all things end and begin again.

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