FEATURED: Cabin Sketches and Other Poems
by Nicholas Trandahl
AN EXCERPT FROM CABIN SKETCHES: PART VIII
“Nirvana is Snowing
Right down on his head
Everything’s all right”
-Jack Kerouac, Mexico City Blues
Striding out
into gentle snowfall
deep
into Caribou-Targhee,
western Tetons,
realm
of miracles
we can never be
but want
to be.
Towering old evergreens,
wild cathedral
holy
with quiet
stillness.
Water
pulsing deep
from glacial heights.
Wolfkind,
your clawed prints
scattered
along the way,
are you patron saints
of this river valley,
lords
of winter earth?
Where do I offer
my gratitude,
my love?
Do I drop it
as a heavy stone
into the creek’s cold current
flowing
somewhere ahead,
stone-bedded artery
of pure earth nectar,
alpine blood
through silent
pine realm.
Wild prints
of hoof and talon
in their varied paths
to secret places
and sylvan rites.
We cross over Teton Creek
flowing crystalline
under
snowy fallen logs,
climb
into wintry timber
on the far side
of the water
toward
the meadow’s cold light.
Think of this
in summer.
Think of this
emerald-green,
songbirds
in warm shimmering air.
Think of moose
ranging up the creek,
flowing ribbon
of living light.
Let’s stop
in this place,
our boots
heavy
in deep snow,
clouds
thickening,
flakes
drifting
down,
sun
fading
like an old story
I’ve grown tired
of telling.
Stop.
Please,
let’s stop here.
This is where
we’ll turn back,
make our way
back
to where
it all
began.
First,
let’s just stand here
for a little while.
Hush.
Hush now.
I think God’s asleep
somewhere
around here.
Listen.
Remember this.
Carry it with you
like a prayer.
ABOVE FLORENCE PASS
Frost-shattered
Precambrian faces
blush pink
shed
their night.
Lavender light
above a small tent
lonely
on a ridge
across
the valley
from old
wild gods.
Orange amber
through pine bristle.
Breakfast
of oats and berries
dried elk meat
between the molars
like predicament.
In an unnamed mountain’s lap
still alpine waters
snowclad
pinnacle
hanging
upside
down.
Wild lupine
fireweed
indian paintbrush.
Moose bog,
muddy ruin
of titans’ moot.
In this present moment,
there are prayers
in the world
bodies
radiant
with suffering.
CHERRIES ON THE BISON FLATS
Like sunrise,
summer breaks
over the grasslands.
Wildflower hymns.
Old paleolithic song
of migration
thick
in the air
this season,
just as it’s been
for ages.
More than a few miles in,
I take my rest
in a grove of pine
on the rim
of a canyon,
red
as a wound.
Wind
across prairie grass,
yellow blossoms,
shards of quartz
glistening
along
bison trails,
pronghorn
at a wallowing hole,
elk and coyote scat
marking a path
as good
as any other,
God
pulling a quilt
silver-grey
across
wide blue,
bison herd
watching me warily,
dark colossi
of power and threat
standing
sentinel
over
light brown calves
racing
playful
about pillared legs,
lone bulls
looming
in hidden draws
like secret barbarian saints.
What are your prayers?
What does the man
who finds you
say?
What holy words
could I offer?
They may come easy
as I take a seat here
on this wild ponderosa throne,
open my pack
for a midday meal—
Wyoming beef,
a heel of sourdough,
a couple handfuls
of cherries
blushing rose
against soft yellow,
cool water
to wash it down.
Cherry seeds
pile
between my boots,
one
after
another
like the months
I’ve left behind
for a quiet day
as fine
as this.
NICHOLAS TRANDAHL
Nicholas Trandahl is an award-winning poet, seeker, and veteran residing in northern Wyoming, where he currently also serves as mayor of his community. He has had six poetry collections published and has also been featured in numerous literary journals and anthologies. Trandahl has been awarded the Wyoming Writers Milestone Award and has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize.