Look to the sky:
bare oaks branched
upon uneven ridgelines
filigreed against
the promise beyond.
In the shadows
faces forgotten
re-inspect the man
I cannot change
from this distance.
Black and white,
dark and light
contrast youth
with age. The trail
is never straight
up the mountain—
granite rip-rap
and switchbacks
beside cold creeks
swept into rivers.
I believe the gods
ignore the pleas
of certain men,
prayers of the sure
and careless.
Look to the sky
for the wet gray rain
to wash this moment
before we start over
and over again.
1.45″
Brilliant, and moving . . .
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Good! None of us is perfect, best go with the seasons starting with a nice, clean rain to erase the small tracks.
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