The mountains are calling and I must go.”

​John Muir

 

Peach light breaks over waves 
of peaks. Crow caw, woodpecker rap.
I drink tea in the the noisy silence.

Spent leaves a soft carpet 
over stone. Deer shift, shadows  
through trees, uncountable.

The path rises rocky. 
I place my feet with caution.
At the summit, two valleys, a breeze.

Skyline drive twists through 
fog, sunlight, fog–mystery 
and revelation trading places.

Golden eagle rides
thermals, his shadow passes
over, blesses me.

Winter-stark mountains
turn soft overnight, wear
a necklace of red-buds.

Last evening. Music wanders
into my ears as mountains fade.
A skunk trundles by.