a poem by Nicholas Trandahl

In the last cold days of November,

right on the doorstep of winter,

I stride quickly into the high country

miles from the nearest dirt road,

as though I can simply flee

my sorrow, my stagnation,

and my army of fears.

In my thick green sweater

and a scarf I bought in El Paso,

my booted steps crunch

into the snow of the trail as I

follow elk prints higher and higher.

Sweating and breathless

in the cold mountain air,

I reach a shattered forest —

aspens and pines all broken

and fallen…

Nicholas Trandahl

Wyoming poet. Published by the New York Quarterly, James Dickey Review, and High Plains Register. Recipient of the 2019 Wyoming Writers Milestone Award.

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