Centennial is the perfect name for the mountains—
a silver word, like the silver radar dome on the peak,
little sentinel. The vintage Books of Mormon on the cabin’s shelf
have seen no white winters, shuttered in the dark as they are—
only heard the snow settle on the roof,
the soft crush of footfalls outside.
It is safer, of course, to keep myself at a distance.
I learned this the hard way. The coyotes, too.