The snowstorm catches us
with tent down, fire out.
The lake is churned white,
and in the half-dark
shouting commands above the wind
we secure our sailing tent to the earth.
Inside, the water achieves its boil slowly
like our long climb out of the valley –
switchbacks riding ridge after ridge.
The soup is a steamy garden
filling our tent with aromatic arguments
against the cold. And now the tightness
which has grazed at our corded necks
begins to release –
a long sigh of expectations eased.
Outside, the elements are a jealous howl
hurled through the darkness,
as we lie ensconced in warm down bags.
With dawn the storm is gone
our tent stands still –
a white sail on the edge of a blue lake.