Its well after ten, the sun lazes in the south hemisphere
One step out from my own front door, the sky, tall pines doth shear,
I stand above the ice filled Yukon, the moon is awful clear,
All round snowy mountains hem me in with a silence you can hear;
With the hoarse croak of a raven, with only thin cloth tween me and the cold,
My life, not-dead in this stark gray world, I've no wish to pan for the gold;
Looking East overhead, green, yellow and red, the Northern Lights do swirl and fold.
I'm quite content with my lot, for the warmth will be back by the next equinox.
And if the good Lord's willin I still be here and not in my own little box.
For a clear day like this castes away my aches, my pains and scars.