In the ice kingdom above Upper Lena Lake,
my son and I are the only moving shapes.
We follow an indistinct path and trade leads,
because the practice of drafting each other
has become engrained. The cold doesn’t worry us.
The quiet terrain doesn’t freeze conversation.
Each pond or creek that we skirt wears a glaze
that reflects a shared sky. Where the track splits
in slick rock or concedes in a meadow
we gather in council. The chill of the air
sees our breath. Ridges we’ve scrambled
alone or together show as dashed lines
on our maps. St. Peter’s Gate pass by the neck
of Mt. Stone may be where we stop,
but we’ll travel as far as our daylight allows.
At the edge of the season, we’re here to connect dots.
Poem by Eric le Fatte
Eric le Fatte was educated in biology and English at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and Northeastern University. He has worked correcting library catalog cards in Texas, and as the Returns King at Eastern Mountain Sports in Massachusetts, but currently hikes, writes, teaches and does research on tiny things in the Portland, Oregon area. His poems have appeared in Rune, The Mountain Gazette, The Poeming Pigeon, The Clackamas Literary Review, The Raven Chronicles, Windfall, Verseweavers, US#1 Worksheets, Perceptions, Cirque, and Clover.