The sky digs in her fingers
to massage the mountain,
presses deep into canyon clefts
where the ache of glacier
and rock-fall scrape is most acute,
rubs a hard gloss onto ice and slickrock,
breathes a thin heat onto sloped meadows
where elk browse among winter-worn
grasses, and a small fox, untouched by cold,
a gold glint of sun caught in her elegant ruff,
crosses a tumbled stream on a fallen log.
The mountain’s sigh rises from water and stone.
find Kleinberg on Insta: @jikleinberg