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His body fell away in parceled shadows.
His mind headed for a mountain cabin he had
hammered together with the long soft nails
of desire.

That first winter was hard,
ground had to be cleared,
wood had to be cut and stacked,
the cabin sealed against gnawing winds.
At night bears explored his defenses,
snow storms probed.

He had to hunt small game to eat,
he set traps. Always cold, exhausted,
and famished,
At night, crazy with hunger,
he would boil the scant food
until he could wolf down
the scalding partly-cooked meat.

He grew thin and wiry. His beard long.
He began to track and bring down deer.
For long days he could rest
as Spring came
to dance lightly on the mountain.

That summer the sheriff drove
then hiked up to pay the newcomer a visit.
He had heard that a dead man had
cleared some acres.

They shared a comfortable smoke
on the front deck.
Then the sheriff asked:


Why he had not moved on
to where most dead folks go to?

He replied:

I was looking for a higher heaven,
one that still needed some climbing.

The Sheriff nodded in agreement.

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