Well Versed In The Weather

Without the fog
Spiraling and puffing
As if the woods smoldered,
The primal cry of the great grey lobo
Would chill our veins.
But the heavy air
Hushed all, then
Drew the blanket of night
Snuggly over the valley.

The Stikine
Drowing in a glacial ocean of snow
Sunk ever deeper into the heavy cold.

An unearthly calm prevailed
As if the Universe had ended
And we had not been invited.