Tim Bellows

CROSS-COUNTRY - RED STAR RIDGE

Half of it jutting up -
the pine, burned to death
by winter wind, Sierra sun.

I stare into tiny cracks
in the purified wood. Swirling knots,
fine holes from woodpeckers' drilling.

Some day in exact weather I
hold the snow-capped world in
something like wings, but not wings.

I glide over hurry and predictions
and look back at patterns like these
in the smile and shape of my bones.