Features & Stories
October Morning on Porcupine Ridge.

The rosy fingers of dawn,

Sparkle on the frosted grass,

And reveal a  fresh dusting of snow,

On the ridge and mountain pass.


Ice on the puddles along the trail,

The little ponds on the creek are froze,

The aspen leaves are swirling,

In each chilly gust that blows


The roan, jigs and dances impatiently,

Shod hoofs clatter on stone and icy clay,

Two dozen cows, still up on this mountain,

And winter aint too far away! 


Mike Puhallo

Other articles by Mike Puhallo

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