by Wendy Gist

"The mountains are calling and I must go." -John Muir

In the direction of the mountain
Long I stand here, awed, unsure.

Emory oaks crown round,
the brush blurs purple as welts,

undulation of undergrowth
powerful yellow strewn with bone,

a drifting of dust.
Manzanita’s smooth red twists spread

and lend fruit
to creatures great and small.

Fresh dreams stream from jay wings
soaring over country almighty;

song of the mountain springs trickle
the wind: calling, calling.

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