The old oaks spoke patiently,
listening to each confusion
press for direction—
but I followed the churn
of rivers narrow
beyond the timber
in the granite
where the stars are many.
A man is almost nothing
in the mountains—
small creature
set apart in time for awe.
The other world of men
exfoliates and settles for
the clutch of gravity
and growth decomposing
in the bottoms—
here weather wears
the worn away
where the stars are many.
No need for money
in the mountains—
unless to start a fire
to keep the cold at bay.
drycrikjournal 