over the hill, over the hump

they're doing fine, being their little snow selves
they're moving closer to another part of life that's
even more native than their old selves: old selves.

over the hump, over the hill, on the glory of time,
he lies in a drift as in a cradle, grooves his runs
into ice, appears to be passing in a swift gondola.

she can unfurl her mane by perking fwd her ears
she is ready to pounce on his signal or rescue him
our routines are faithful as the planets and stars.


Donna Thong