headin' to huntin' camp
The truck that got me here is a warm memory, and now, twenty below, numb feet, useless wool coat, rifle, and this-up down, up down on Misty, the horse, trudging in this snow. I wonder, in ten years, will the Inuits still have fifty words for snow? Will they have the word for a delicate snow sculpted corsage that is pinned to a girl's whale parka and sealed with an Eskimo kiss?
Images and content are Copyright protected 2020 by Margaret Ann Withers.