On the edge of winter at the drop of dusk,
Wapiti bows his head, his antlers catch the wind.
Like scaffolds made of bone, they steady his stance
against the graupel gust.
Wapiti finds refuge below the Mummy Range,
he rests in willow withies along a frozen rill,
he gnaws the matted ninebark
as first snow begins to fall.
When morning breaks, a ginger glow
rings the turquoise sky.
Wapiti rises tall, stands proud as Mount Chapin —
unmoved by crackling boughs,
untouched by prickling frost.
In the alpine meadow, Wapiti strides alone.
He looks toward the herd — a drifter, he holds back,
dreaming of the dawn when he
leads them from the front.
When daylight slants to evenfall
and moonlight cools the snow,
Wapiti’s bugle fills the night
as he cries out, hoping to be heard.