Ridge Line

our mother in winter

Ridge Line
Perched high above
the pale winter landscape,
where the cattle carelessly trod over
their tundra sod,
I sit and watch the backs
of the carrion birds as they glide,
gracefully,
along the horizon.
The barren winter lands,
found dull by many,
reveal some of her most profound insecurities.
Her mountains are effortlessly exposed
and you can see where her roots
grip desperately to the desolate ground.
Her rivers are frozen,
leaving shelves of ice
shoved against her shores.
Her land is dulled and damp
so her daylight drifters
wander deep into her womb
for seemingly excessive sleeps.
Even the sun seeks
more solitude after the solstice.
But her stars shine just as brilliantly,
as does her moon,
now shadowed by the
silhouette of her song birds.