It was extra cold this winter,
continuous ice floes
danced on top of the swirling rapids
near Munson's Creek.

As the stars disappeared,
the sun cracked
the eastern horizon,
I had been out all night
setting the extra traps.

My camp was set earlier this year,
near the largest dam of the
big-toothed water-creatures,
I hoped to trap
me some bigger beavers
this time around.

The pelt harvest was quite significant
in last year’s haul, but now
the boys down at Johnson’s Mercantile
had placed an order for twenty-five more.
I planned to make my quota
before the spring thaw.

I was getting lonelier than hell
in this frozen wasteland.
I really missed my darling Mae,
if she only knew how blue I was.
My dog was getting homesick too.