Fickle

We rise like vapor slowly from the water

Mirror Lake, in the High Uinta mountains

in November with the silence of antecedent snow

we have desire but we form with no direction

we hunt only what finds us, arbitrarily

we know dawn is coming sooner than we’d like

at the boundary of heaven, all vapors vaporize

but for now we will operate within

the aspirations of this fickle wind