Exposed slopes sculpted by eons of storm,
like smooth flesh cut by canyons, worn
wrinkle into wrinkle, creek to river run,
speak quietly of patience on a Sabbath
after-rain, after yet another cleansing,
glint of dew upon the green at dawn.
When the Bird and Animal People
created man, gathered up the earth
to mold in their hands, they thought big
at first, but left the hills undone for us
to live within. You can feel mountains
breathe, hear the heart beat underneath
your feet, and in the moonrise see
movement in their sleep, waiting
to awake some day when we are gone.
drycrikjournal 
That “someday” may be closer than we think!!!
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An excellent poem, well done!
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