A poem

I wrote this poem on a snowy Wednesday while waiting for the Downeaster to take me to Boston.

I was inspired by a contest on the Boston Globe's website. I'm pretty pleased with how it turned out, though, so I'ma publish it again here, because blogs are where lasting impressions are made.

Broken shovel
snapped blade
lies collecting snow

New wood handle
fresh stained
iron rusted years ago

The Porcupine Trail

While skiing on Sunday, Dad and I met up with a couple of other instructors and regulars while out on the trail Dudley Do-Right.

"Did you see The Porcupine Trail?" They asked.

"There's one up there and just down there."

We hadn't. We skied a bit down and stopped above one of those trails of anti-freeze that Snow Cats sometimes leave while grooming the trails late at night. Except, on closer inspection, this trail had quills. And bits of flesh.

This was where a porcupine, an animal with no natural predators on the mountain, had met its end in the steely crush of a rolling tread. Not unlike a tank tread. There were some skull fragments. There was a complete claw. Which, despite the best efforts of one of the guys, would not be stuck to a nearby light pole.

"Best groomed porcupine in all of Maine."