Wednesday, September 11, 2019
This post was written while hiking in the Sierra Mountains
The lake is a strand of dark blue
surrounded by a ribbon green marsh grass.
Ducks fly in low, landing in sequence, they
form a line paddling to the opposite bank,
their purpose unknown.
How long has this rock I am sitting on
been in this spot.
Certainly since long before I was born,
it will remain here long after
I have passed this way.
Perhaps it has always been here
since the cataclysmic uplift that raised
now, simply being weathered to nothing.
Perhaps it broke from the peak above,
a disobedient child,
and ran away, tumbling and churning
until it came to rest in this spot,
faraway from its place of birth.
I don’t want to leave this spot,
It sings to me of places far away
and sights too beautiful to imagine.