Away from camp, you bend beside the lake,

touch glassy bubbles, water rushing in circles

so cold they want to keep your hand. Alone,

you watch the sun rise in the glacial cirque, moon

white, still up in the west, steep rock

face all around. You stop to catch your breath.

Walking back, you think of your breath

coming in puffs, see a deer's skull by the lake

resting on a shelf of lichens, monochromes on rock,

The papery nasal structures under twin circles

of eye socket, blank and white as the moon.

Skeleton gone, the skull by the lake is alone.

Back at camp and busy, no longer alone,

You rig the food up in a pack, tie ropes, breath

coming fast now from the work, and hoist it moon-

ward. At night bears drink from this lake,

their claws in soft mud tracking circles,

patterns ending abruptly on rock.

Night comes and wind whistles through rock.

Curled in your sleeping bag, you are alone

with the wakeful tent flap, thoughts circling:

       If heart stops here, the rise and fall of breath

      halts, will flesh be taken by the freezing lake?

      Will soul become one with the moon?

In a sky filled with serious stars, the moon

does not speak, nor do steep rock

cliffs answer. Here only the shivering lake

seems to think, that reflection alone

where  bears gather to drink, their breath

ringing the clear quartz surface with circles.

You climb higher, to the place a hawk circles

and trees thin out. There is no moon

at the summit, only the dazzling tarn and breath

coming, an accurate pain. Scratched on rock,

the passageway back plunges down. Alone

at the base, your tent is a speck by the lake.

Alone, you witness the jawbone of rock,

Moon rising and falling like breath.

Fear circles far below you, by the lake.

photo: http://safetyeas.ualberta.ca