Winter Landscape with Flirting Tourists

On the Savage River where overflow

crackles underfoot,

the couple, so bundled

they seem synthetic,

shouts, packs failed snowballs

out of too-dry snow.

I want to say,

That doesn’t work here,

but who am I

not to let someone find out on their own,

so I pass them on the trail,

jean jacket and bare hands

because who are they

to define cold.

And who am I to define at all.

They have the words,

bright syllables built

of the pull between them.

I have only the trail’s styrene crunch

and the hush of exhalation.

I take a picture of a rock,

of wind-scalloped snow,

each rise molded,

while they take a picture

of the hazy mountain.

They walk the frozen river

in the opposite direction.

I come back in the quiet,

past the trailhead,

past their rental car,

while the mouthless trees

inch closer,

unable to call my name.