Hell-Cat High Step

Poetry by John Davis

Curses coming, the wind
and rain unbury dead leaves.
Ambush. Foolish to hike
the Cascade ridge just to hike the ridge
glassy sheen on stones.
Damp bangs stick to our forehead
like leeches that suck out senses.

This litany of footsteps
is a dialogue with the day’s
charisma and how the cold
works on the body.
How can a grin not work
like a sudden shot of gin
or a mug …