When it’s springtime in the Rockies

And my lips are turning blue

I’ll be slogging through the blizzard

like a brain dead caribou…

Ah, springtime.

That first hint of life beginning anew, the annual transformation,

its throat in long tubercular coughs that turn rain into birdshot, sleet into ice,

ice into snowflakes shaped like goatheads or bob wire,

Not falling but slicing by you like shr...