San Juans

We are three packs headed into the valley
toward some crater lake, so many are named crater.
The San Juan mountains poking out of the earth like sleepy animals,
foggy and damp.
They are brothers, and I am like a brother.
There is the smooth swing of legs under Colorado pines
and the odd welcome of shouldering a burden.
We have whiskey, some rope, extra socks, a mandolin.
The important stuff, and some food.
An old avalanche chute gives us a view of the water
below the switchbacks and moss and meadow grass.
The lake could be made of tears, I remember thinking that.
The beginning of a stay in the mountains,
three peaceful beings equipped for peace.
The fullness of feeling that this was just starting, and—with that rebellious itch
that comes from time in the wilderness—we could fold ourselves away
into all the crater lakes across the pine-needled world.