The Mountains Yell At Me On My Way To Work!
Each day, the mountains yell, but
I’m on my way to work.
Their evocative stance is heady perfume demanding attention be paid.
This morning, they sat in contrast to the April springtime here on the flat.
Snow on the peaks were not just dollops of whipped cream
(the usual look in the slide toward summer),
but puffed comforters.
Heavy clouds hovered over the foothills
as I drove and looked, drove and looked.
They were starting to move up, obscuring more of my view,
preparing to lay down the other foot or so of snow
the weatherman has predicted.
In snowshoes I hiked a trail up a ways, entered a lonely meadow
and spring buds and flowers await.
Encircled by the evergreens,
it seemed a space that held its breath for summer life.
Deer, elk and moose teetered at the edges of dangerous hunger,
waited for green morsels to appear;
new growth meant
finally a good meal.
Streams broke into fast running, snow chunks tumbled off
and joined the flow, while tiny whitecaps echoed the ocean’s power.
A gray jay called with a ‘chuck, chuck’, waiting for the response,
then flew into the pines.
I wandered along to the trail again, and spotted an Abert’s squirrel,
working its way around the tree.
As I near work. . .
Wait, the mountain is screaming, come now!
But I cannot.
I can only look forward to the times my imagined pictures become real.