We are just outside the forest,
a hunting party at night,
landscape laden by moonlight,
two quiet Indians behind us watching
our tracks, and behind them
a tall ominous conifer.
The other group is farther
ahead aways, bearing
down on something, the spark
and clap of rifle fire
sounds off through the trees,
my retinas light up like tiny
bonfires. We run towards
the commotion but the firing
ceases and we become
lost among the pines, and
I still have no idea what we
are after, a mythic creature maybe.
In the morning we set off,
we are in the valley now and
have a journey back home to the high
steppes, far from this strange canton…
We are making good pace, the countryside skids
by, the vineries like receding carpets
grow tinier, the lake now farther below…
To the town we ascend in
a gondola, looking down we see
wandering geese, mired mossy fields, and
higher up the last dregs of a once proud
glacier beckoning us on. You say you
love the lake shore best, the chance to
swim and sun bathe, not this
sequestered inland shire where
nothing really seems to happen
but us and the sky laid out above.