Brian Rihlmann


in the mountains at dawn
the edge of summer
huddles under ten foot drifts

a crow’s wings
brush the silence
and a chickadee sings
in a tree beautifully broken
and twisted
by a hundred winters

gnarled, stripped
and left for dead
but it will grow on
it will sink roots deeper
reach branches higher

a sunbeam 
pierces a cloud
shines on the valley below
a glass tower blazes
a pillar of light

and when the clouds drift away
a shadow appears 
on a sparkling canvas
of spring snow

a long shadow of a man 
walking alone 

the shadow raises a hand
and waves 
I think it’s me

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