Barrow, Alaska
It is early November
and the sun will rise no higher
than the shack roofs before sliding
back for twenty dark hours.
This is the last finger
of land where rock and sand
dive under a frozen sea.
There are no mountains or trees
or broken ground.
We slam doors, huddle
in groups and watch the noon‑high
creep toward zero.
Crows are all that fly out there,
waves of darting
minnows rising from
steaming mounds of trash.
Soon, the light will last
less than an hour.
We stare into
our drinks and listen
to the immense wind.
We settle back and smile,
this is why we came
and we have come as far as we dare.