The Avalanche

A strange February Warmth, not like the usual weather of snow drifts, of freeze, or of sharpness in the air. The warmth is disarming and dangerous to those who can't read the signs on the hills. I hear the artillery sounding against the tops of the mountains to the south, where the snow is being pounded and loosened from it's precarious hold. Here the wetness has gathered in the thick top layer, lying on top of another layer beneath. All along the bay the south side slopes are groaning with movement today-- too warm and quiet and tense, like a coiled force ready to strike. So, I stay away from the steeper areas, going instead to the protected cliff tops and ridges, keeping my ears open to sounds from the south. Tomorrow someone will die over there, buried in the crush by tons of avalanche. In those last moments, perhaps in disbelief, while the sound and it's roar buries him, knows immediately what we can only guess, entombed under the glare of a impersonal sun. This day has a dangerous look.