Silver Summit
The PoetKing treks Utah
In Summit County I take the breakfast burrito at Kimball like fuel,
not ritual,
heat I can carry out from the junction toward Jupiter Peak through powder that does not register me.
Cold enters at the feet.
Always.
The body answers or it doesn’t.
Getting there isn’t a right.
It’s an apprenticeship to the Wasatch, which keeps its own terms: breath spent in increments, frost taken in whether you agree or not.
Some peaks hold their distance with money.
Some with weather.
The backcountry works.
Slopes cut back to the granite, wind taking what it wants and leaving the rest to freeze.
Nothing asks to be seen.
It holds.
Utah doesn’t announce.
It keeps.
And if Deer Valley needs a queen, let the safe elite stay there, bright and untouched, while the rest of us drop into the chute.
The PoetKing bows to none.
The HouseofFireBorn burns everywhere.