The Tetons

             
                                                                                              by Mike Berger




                                                                            Silence distills across the snow.

                                                            The rugged blue peak shrouded

                                                            in white. Ice crystals on bare branches

                                                            dance in the morning sun.

 

                                                            My camera shutter knows only one

                                                            dimension. It fails to capture the

                                                            mood; impervious to the sense of 

                                                            raw beauty.

 

                                                            It amputates the rustling of dried aspen

                                                            leaves and the chirping is of the birds.

                                                           The only sound is the mechanical click

                                                            of the lens and the crunch of virgin snow

                                                            under foot.

 

                                                            Jenny Lake glistens in melody as icy

                                                            fingers penetrate its calm. The mirrored

                                                            surface captures its own images of pine

                                                            and peaks.