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Poetry

3

Generations

Josh rousts me at false dawn morning chill enough to replace coffee

Tired bones bend down for 50 lbs.

Alpenglow showers Mt. Muir dikes and shadows merge on the horizon us engulfed in Whitney’s great western basin. We pass No Name Tarn sight of yesterday’s bracing cold plunge with my son our weary muscles catabolizing, then metabolizing. Moving specks of early trail-risers snake above us We don’t compete, content on earning Whitney in a few hours. We’re 4 days out and have passed Cottonwood - Siberian - Army my breath cold still, I unzip, and soon de-layer.

Josh far up ahead as he should be

My pride swells as he climbs up into first light glowing in long strides deserving Everest.

Later, atop, we move away from the crowd and set 2 tiny pieces of obsidian 4 days long they’ve been tinkling in my pocket now they tinkle down into Whitney’s bones set here forever

Mine for my Mom

Josh for his beloved Grandpa

We stand silent then I tell him he’s not getting off so easy with my obsidian “It’ll be Denali in winter,” I huff.

— John Balawejder, Santa Cruz