hat’s off to the icehounds
the ones who don’t sleep
who find scraps of fun
as the rest of us weep

while mates snore like sawmills
in the hour before dawn
their ice-intuition
is fully turned on

they crawl to the screen
scan temperatures, wind
and their internal roll-a-dex
twirls once again:

now the ice on Pond X
was an inch at day’s end
it’s 22 now and
a good sailing wind

is it worth it: the drive?
the hustling of gear?
when there’s still cards to write
and a cup of good cheer?

but the real hounds don’t stumble
don’t pause, don’t abort
their wiring is different:
they know life is short

and when they meet the Great Sailor
on that Plate at the last
he’ll question them closely
on their keenness in past

as the Great Gates creak open,
they’ll haul sheets with ease
then sail off forever
on the heavenly breeze!