Snowshoeing on Ravens’ Ridge
  by Deborah Casillas

Neat marks like math problems
the birds had solved in the night,
pluses and minuses tracked
in rows between the trees. Sky
smooth as glass, that shimmering,
hard New Mexican blue,
the snow’s unbroken
ivory crust. We paused between
two untouched surfaces, dark
green pines almost black
in the shadows, our eyes blinded
by the glare. One of the joyous
remembered days—breath smoking out,
ice crystals sprinkled like diamond dust
in the air, snow loosening
in soft clumps from branches.
Fix it in your minds,
I meant to say, our lungs burning
with the rush of climbing
to eleven thousand feet,
calves stretched like rubber.
Here we’re laughing, above us
three ravens banking on a current
and circling back, long black
glide of wings like shiny windblown
kites crackling overhead.
Beyond us the mountains stretch east
in pale diminishing purple;
snow lies like Chinese silk
draped over rocks and bushes.
Hidden in the dark pines
small animals wait for dusk
when movement is their only
betrayal, when the owl’s round
eyes shine after them like moons.
Creak of the ravens’ wings,
aspens’ lacy tips etched against
blue: an austere clarity stilling us
before we start down.