- Each pane of the old window
- framed a different crag of the range.
- On the days when she was there to see them
- she knew he was somewhere on one or another,
- too far to see or hear, yet she saw
- his scarlet parka marking his location
- sharply against the snow,
- saw him kicking spiked boot toes into a wall of ice,
- saw his long legs pistoning him over a crevasse,
- heard him jangling his gear and tackle, laughing.
- The mountains were magnificent, jagged,
- torn from the earth too recently for softness –
- an ungloved hand passed over them would be cut,
- no matter how gentle its intent.
- The Sound lay broad and still
- below the upthrust range, distancing its dangers
- from where she stood, her brushes
- smoothly revealing on gessoed paper
- the perfection of water without menace,
- tempering, balancing the peaks where he went,
- an ice axe in each fist.
- .
- An eagle swept across the panes, taut wings wide,
- storming the black-green firs that sentineled the house,
- landing fast, claws first, on a high branch
- next to a white-crowned head already there, just visible.
- .
- He walked across the garden, smiling,
- a coiled hose over one bare, tanned shoulder.
