A chill wind blows snow in a whirl,
Mounds form a lengthy drift,
Covered, the Meadow’s Campground does not exist.
The surrounding beauty is a white pearl.
The white frost changes to a drop,
Unless it moves to air direct,
Via sublimation, the gas can affect,
Solid to gas is nature’s swap.
Highway roads change in winter’s snow,
Dark pavement will suddenly freeze,
Solid smooth ice, a dangerous road show.
I travel solo, with a chilled unease,
Air sparkles silver, rainbow colors even so,
Just travel onward, no power to appease.
Francis Conlon is a retired and recovering teacher. For the past 20 years, he has worked as a seasonal river ranger and boat inspector at Yampa River State Park in northwest Colorado. He has published in the local Valley Voice and in Westward Quarterly. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.