No rest along the ridgeline.
A thought can float to where the sky begins
and disappear. No problem, it’s life
in mountain time, passing slowly
rock by rock and even slower
deep inside where not even the coyotes
see what’s going on. An upward thrust,
heat flowing in the dark, some stress
and pressure and soon it is
a moodswing turned to stone.
A snake at rest undreams the image
of the rocky face that casts a shadow over him.
Light cannot hear
the whiplash moment of a bite, the way
in greener landscapes grass
cannot hear the quaking underneath it.
Hawks afloat on thermals, sunlight
seeking refuge in arroyos. The surface is
so alive imagination can’t reach
the geological salad inside Earth.
Desert wide the only symmetry
is a pair of ravens as they interrupt
their ground search with
the dip and rise of pleasure on the wing
while they shine above a mountain
that eats time. Holds its ground,
welcomes Rock wrens home,
shoulders stars at midnight, and shelters
underneath an owl’s wing. Waits
patiently for one good storm
to wash a year of suffering away.
Weather’s only skin deep, come wind,
come lightning, flash flood on the run,
water singing to cure the headache
in the lithosphere.
The interior’s exchange rate is
a cubic yard of darkness for a cubic
yard of light. It’s quiet enough there
for stones to think. Some ache
when memories possess them, others smile
at having been released from a world of lies
and all of them learn
there’s no way back from being a dream.
.
David Chorlton
.