The Iditarod

To Nome!  To Nome!
The mushers are far from home.

Winding ribbon of snow,
Iditarod trail is hard to tow,
Blowing wind smacking faces,
As they pick up their paces,
Vying for their pot-of-gold.

To Nome!  To Nome!
The mushers are far from home.

Full moon at night,
Dogs' and racers' silhouettes in sight,
A picture of friendship is shown by light,
Determination and tired feet,
All dream of resting on a soft seat.

To Nome!  To Nome!
The mushers are far from home.

As early daylight appears,
Sunlight peeks and gives a smile,
To the teams who have rested a while,
Knowing they are ready,
Hitting the trail fast and steady.

To Nome!  To Nome!
The mushers are far from home.

Dogs pick up the scent
Of moose who will not relent,
Stubborn and snorting ready to charge
The barking visitors at large,
Annoyed and angry at their barge.

To Nome!  To Nome!
The mushers are far from home.

Moose behind them and many miles,
The racers look ahead and see
The deep and overwhelming snow piles,
Feeling hearty,  vigorous and hale,
Bounding over the trail of hill and dale.

To Nome!  To Nome!
The mushers are far from home.

Quiet is gone and replaced by shouts
Of well wishers who have no doubts,
Watching the jubilant winner pass
Under Nome's burled arch in glory,
Making a March headline story.