Above Sea Level
Late fall and a few tourists
trickle in to ride the chair lift
to see the alpine larch, golden
against the first wisps of snow.
Some even hike down to the lodge
but most return they way they came
to the new Irish style pub and sip
a whisky mix which really isn’t sour
and inhale the smoke of imported peat.
Time’s passage feels like molasses
yet the glaciers are melting.
Soon enough our grandkids will rise to
mountain parakeets rather than chickadees
but at least they’ll be above sea level.
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