stands like a broad-shouldered sphinx
high above hawk cries and cloud shadows
that parade through the valley below.
I stand on the summit, drop my pack
take off my boots and feel a stillness
beyond what I can know—
like an uninvited guest
who has wandered into possibilities.
Violence seems distant now
the green slopes and mountainside
are silent save the call of circling crows
and the rubbing of trees
that sound like a doors rusty hinge.
The landscape sings.
The land and mountains, full of poems.
What would it be like, I wonder to stand as
the mountain? I mean a conscious mountain
walking, full of poems the rest of my days.
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