The silent beatitude

Lo and behold, I saw the ice camp yonder,
like a child sleeping in its mother's bosom;
The tiny whiffs of smoke
masking the gentle undulations of breath.
The placid tunes of the generator,
singing soft lullaby, whilst it slept.
Should I land the Cessna now,
lest I wake it and bring forth all the clamor

- From the collection of works "Poetry is just chopped-up prose" by Mani Thomas :-)