Late April,
when winter gives in,
snow turns to rain,
and the cutting begins.

In ancient aspen groves,
chained teeth bite through branches.

The sound of saws feeding
is a harsh song,
but beyond the wailing
are screams
far older than steel.

The spray of orange sawdust
paints over emerging greens
and fresh blood is sprinkled
over virgin snow.
Crimson seeps with shock
into cream.

Dreams evaporate into nightmares
in the discordant symphonies, competing colors,
and rising heat of Spring.


and the morning rises
with bloodshot skies.

heavy with last night’s dreams
gather in the west.

The wind whispering over the sage
gives warning:
the day will be colder
than night.

And, when the rain hardens to snow
faith lost is regained.