The Martians(137)

His head on the roof of the cave

So hard he almost killed himself

Dreaming of that wave

6. Seen While Running

Four birds in the air fighting

kestrel

magpie

crow

hawk

all involved spinning

in a brief spat overhead

CROSSING MATHER PASS

At the turning point of my life

I hiked toward Mather Pass.

With every step clouds thickened above

Until the world was roofed in gray.



Thunder rolled from west to east

Like big barrels over a floor

And as I crossed great Upper Basin

It began to snow.



Soon I walked in a white bubble

Slush piled on every rock.

Warm and dry in parka and pants

I felt my life fall away.



I gave it up. Fly away

On the wind, drift into slush,

I'll never go back! I quit!

Each step up was a step away.



A convex shattered slope of stone

Rose into mist. A boulder wall.

The pass on top, unseen. The trail

Swept up without a switchback,



Right to left in a single shot,

The Muir Trail crew's one touch of art.

It cost a life: I passed a plaque

And read the name: my own.



Then I was in the pass.

Flakes blew up one side and

Down the other. In the lee I tried

To eat but started shivering. Go.



With easy strides I clumped down

The white Ss on the northern slope

Until I saw the Palisade Lakes,

Far far below. The sun came out.



White lace on wet gold granite,

A new world, a new life,

A new world I'll make it new!

I passed two hikers setting camp.



Did you come over in that storm?

Yes, I said, I left my life on the other side

And now I'm not afraid.

NIGHT IN THE MOUNTAINS

"Or I can say to myself as if I were

A wanderer being asked where he had been

Among the hills: 'There was a range of mountains

Once I loved until I could not breathe.' “


—THOMAS HORNSBY FERRIL

1. Camp

Stream falling over rock:

Loud music. Night and a candle.



Halfway through this life:

It doesn't feel so long.



Ridges, cliffs, peaks, cols:

I'll never stop wanting them.



Ponds, meadows, streams, moss:

My knees number them.



Stars outside my tent door:

All my troubles as far away.

2. The Ground

Candleflame, minutes.

Pine needles, months.

Branches, years.

Sand, centuries.

Pebbles, millennia.

The bedrock, eons.

Me and broken sticks.

3. Writing by Straight

Can't see the words.

Waterfall a rope of sound,

Rushing about, pushed by the wind.

Trees black against the stars.



Dim blank white page.

I write on it and see a

Dim blank white page.

The story of my life!



Juniper, tent, rock, dark.

Wind dying. My heart

At peace. A Friday night.



The Big Dipper sits on the mountain.

My friends lie in their tents.

My back against the white rock,

Star bowl spinning overhead:

Feel the movement and soar away.



Who knows how many stars there are,

All those dim ones filling the black

Until it seems no black is there.

And then you see the Milky Way.

The sky should be pure white with stars,

That's black dust up there blocking the view,

Carbon just like us! All flung together through space

In just this way.



By starlight everything is clear.

Trees are alive. Rocks are sleeping.

Waterfalls, so noisy!

All the rest—

Quiet as my heart.

INVISIBLE OWLS

I remember our night on the ridge

I had seen a nook some years before

Flat sand and shrubs in broken granite

Right on the crest so I thought I could find it

And you were game for anything



We hiked up in late afternoon

Carrying water in our packs

Up in the shadow of the Crystal Range

Up shattered granite all patched with grasses

Until we stepped back into the light



We found the nook and pitched the tent

Between two gnarly junipers

The sun set in the big valley's haze

The light leaked out of the sky

We leaned against rock cooking our supper



And in the last electric blue

The richest color in all the world

We jerked at a flash in the air above

And jerked again as out of the night

Black shapes dove at both our heads



In the dark we could barely see them

Their quick dives made no sound at all

Too big for bats too quiet for hawks

We ducked it seemed at an onslaught of owls

Out hunting in a little pack



A strange disjunction of the senses

Wings baffled to damp their noise

So we heard nothing except the stove

Yet saw the steep black strobe approaches

The braking the sharp glides turning away



Then one came close we sensed the talons

I picked up the stove and held it aloft

A Bluet canister with blue flames burning

Bright in the dark blue expanse of space

Beyond it black wings flitting away



We laughed with just a touch of a shiver

Actually to be considered as food

Above the stars popped out all over