Pit

The sun sinking behind
Lofty peaks towering to mingle
With snow, which breaks and reflects
The refracted rays transforming grey rock,
Now an object of awful beauty.

The pack, leaning against a tree,
Close by, still weighs on tired shoulders .

A slight breeze ripples,
The translucent tents dance;
And all the plants sigh,
As though another day passing
Lifts a burden from their sun-scorched leaves.

Finally, shadows deepen and the sun
Slips away leaving a chill air foiled by
Pit.

John Sullivan