Poem: The Pine Cone Crunch

By Tim Stouffer

Pine cone crunch…

is that a new Blizzard flavor?

At the local D.Q. after a canoe trip,

or the lego-like-walk to the latrine in the dark;

hazarding the path without your sandals

cause you forgot your glasses

in the food pack that’s hung high in the branches?

Is it some extra protein in the chicken chow mien

rehydrating over the burning pyramid of dry birch?

Is it the debitage pile from the resident red squirrel

that lies here, but also there.

And over there.

Is it the scintillating

smell that’s deep in the woods if you leave the path

even for a moment to follow the trail of a chattering chickadee

or scout the shade for Lady Slipper footprints?

Is it worth every moment it took to get here?

The bight along the shore that you read incorrectly on the map

and the bite of the yoke on your shoulders

and the bite(s)

all around the soft part of your neck and ears.

That much and much more.

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