Everybody’s gone away.
They think there’s nothing left to see.
The garish colors’ flashy show is over.
Now those of us who stay
hunker down in sweet silence,
blessed emptiness among
gold tamarack, a few
remaining pale yellow
sedge and fern in shades
from beige to darkening red
to brown to almost black,
and all this in front of, below,
among blue-green spruce and fir
and white pine,
all of it under gray skies,
chill air, all of us waiting
in the somber dank and rain,
waiting here in quiet, chill
waiting for the snow.
The weather is horrible here on Judevine Mountain.
It’s dark and cold all winter. Every day, rain and snow
beat on your head, and the sun never shines. Then
it’s spring and more rain, and ice and mud too. And
after that, the black flies eat you alive, and then the
deerflies, and then the mosquitoes, and then it’s fall
before you even noticed it was summer. Then there
might be a couple of weeks of decent weather and
then it starts to rain and snow again. It’s just awful
living here. I don’t think you’d like it here at all.
You’d better find your own miserable place to live.
Courtesy of The Writer’s Almanac