Sierra Springs

~ Paul Willis No storms since February, then two burning weeks of March, winter snowpack going fast. The hutkeeper at Pear Lake said eleven feet this year: the lodgepole by the door marks four feet, maybe six, depending how you rim the well. The surface dense with cones, twigs, branches, needles—my skis a wax museum of flora. Streams flowing, bursting through. We took a chance on a rotting bridge over Silliman Creek, got lucky. Granite slabs shedding their scarves. In the afternoon, the slope settles, unsettles, the hollow whomp of layers collapsing underfoot like the heartsick shock of love dismissed, Ophelia returning her tokens. —Sequoia National Park