Wheeler Peak

 

Darkling summer clouds and lightning bolts

Three ravens tacking through the storm, appearing

            in and out of mist

            as if to gather poems from

            a concentrated sky

And hail, uncertain of its gravity, just

bounces off their feathered backs

 

The heaving lungs, the throbbing legs, are

            finally listening to the higher gods

Protected by old shattered stones, where snow

            just barely melts

Where percolation steeps

 

Alone

 

And covered from                  

the air

            the cold

            from wind that tears at tearing eyes

 

The sundered firmament unfolds

A mountain river being born