Thanksgiving Trail Run Poem

Minus two degrees,
snow ankle deep,
up we go.
The frozen air
burns our lungs
as Zorro and I put
one foot in front of another.

A squawking flock
of black ravens lifts
off an elk's rib cage,
bloody red, glowing
against the white.

I'm certain this mountain
gets a degree steeper
each year it ages.
Deer and elk tracks
criss-cross everywhere.
We are all cold,
on the move, alive.

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