The Haunting

Anchorage sidewalks,

sketched in foot-etched snow

and ice-fog glitter.

A defiant collage

of parkas, ski-caps and gloves

parading crunches

at almost ten below.

Cook Inlet,

violated now

by random chunks of ice.

She pushes reluctant tides

to Turnagain's rut-scarred flats,

as a cloud-framed seagull

pauses in awe.


The Chugach Mountains, 

a ring of Shamans

glowing crimson afternoons.

Then echoing nights

consumed by moons.

a fire's erratic shadows

probe within.


I wonder if I

shall ever return.

There is no reason

to return


except the haunting.