Alaska

Rosy were the mountain peaks
that soared above the fields,
rising from the sea-side valleys
cut by glacial shields.
The river down, below the road
was frozen, icy black
and the vicious wind was something that
our southern winters lack.
The chilly crunch of fresh lain snow
did crackle through the air
like the sound of popcorn popping
at a county fair.
While high above an eagle drifted,
wings spread wide in flight,
lit by golden flames that soon
would herald in the night.
We gazed in wonder
-my father and I-
at the icy peaks and fields,
the frozen pines and sky.
And as we gazed the night retook
its claim upon the land
washing away the deep red fire
like waves upon the sand.