Soon we will leave
this mountain shining wide and grand,
shards of wind
needling its uncompromising ear.
The woman at the next table doesn’t know
there is a crumb on her lip,
the tourists that they must not
feed the keas. It's the kids, not us,
skiing. We breathe in white air, deep and brilliant.
Diminished yet grateful, we drink coffee
from a thermos, hear the kea’s
cry of the abandoned.
Kay McKenzie Cooke