photoart: ralph murre
HIGH
RIDGE
by Jude Genereaux
You don't know this place
'til you run the high ridge
in the dusk of a frigid
January night
one eye on the road
the other teased
across the bay by
pin dots of light, signaling
You don't know this place
'til skiffing black ice roads
in the misty dawn, dodging
fearless does, their haughty eyes
staring at your hapless ride
through a grey and silent
unconcerned forest
You don't know this place
'til you see the roads empty
buildings stiff with winter
windows drained of light
snow rollers blowing ‘cross
the white landscape
and bare bone branches clattering
their lament to a frigid sky.
Summer doesn't live here, only
travels briefly through
taunting those confused
by abundance,
picks their pockets
turns her back and runs
You don't know this place.
~ first published in Clark Street Review
