"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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