I sit by a gentle smoldering fire
in the glow of morning Methow sun
which has finally scaled the crest
of Silver Star’s hunched shoulder—
a very good time to be awake:
restored, refreshed, and wide aware.
Yet even now an urge to drowse
intrudes! Yes, sleep will reign anew
though now I bask on this granite slab,
campsite pitched midst subalpine fir,
heat- and frost-scorched berry brush,
and crusted lichen, meandering, pale.
Later the Peace Trail will guide me on,
and who knows where, as it forges its way
through ranks of old-growth boles that crowd
the banks of Early Winters Creek?
Inside the tent my love still sleeps.
When she is rested she will arise—
but not before. All in good time.
And I do not begrudge her this.
For in sleep we dream, and in waking rise
to make the dreams we sleep come true.