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.