March 26, 2014

Sitting on a cold mountain

reading Axe Handles

while my intervalometer chirps.

It’s 3:00 AM.

I watched the moon rise

from a giant slope

of pine and snow.

Dark bristlecone pine tips set ablaze.

White-gold halo, twenty-two degrees

and climbing



The dog snores, unaware

that “the wild” is anything other

than where and what we are–


(This poem is my very humble tribute to Gary Snyder, whose life and work I greatly admire.)

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