Hiking Up A Ski Trail In Summer Poem by David Welch

The grasshoppers leap up with every step
through the mess of forbs and grass at my feet,
some thornier branches scratch at my boots,
ticks frown when they see my blue, denim pants,
they'll have to go elsewhere for their dinner.

The mountain-bike trails are not open yet,
wide slopes are silent, save bird-song and bugs,
splashes of color, mostly yellow, abound,
flowers feed bees on their endless patrols,
the deer love new growth, but flee midday sun.

I feel it, on my back, on my neck, close,
the big hat shields the face, but I still sweat,
almost like I'm hiking in the prairie,
but no trees also means such awesome views,
usually I see them frosted in snow.

Above, on the ski lift, the chairs do hang
like metal ghosts, haunted by the spirits
of families that rode them months ago,
their towers silent, steel sentinels; tall…
remember to get clear if there's lightning.

My thighs don't hurt, no, it's all in my calves,
different muscles from a normal trail hike,
I've drank too much water, but I make it,
cooler air of altitude braces me,
green New England rolls out before my eyes…