In the Alaskan Tundra

It’s almost midnight

and sun still polishes air

like rosin over bow.

The day stretches wider

than it’s ever been.

Night won’t come near

the scrub alders of the tundra

or the short grass

that’s been mowed by passing seasons.


Landscape bathes in this vast

iridescent wash

as if a lake of light

has overflown its banks.

A stream, flush with northern snow,

slithers through,

flecks the dreams

of the campers in their tents.

Its rhythm wakes the memory

of a distant herd of migrating elk.


A solitary eagle

hauls its shadow through camp

then off to higher ground.

Nothing in a sleeping bag

invites interest.


Early morning,

a brief dusk

will be nudged aside

by an emerging dawn.

No wristwatch

can believe what it’s saying.

— John Grey


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