“The mountains are calling,
and I must go,”
but I can’t,
I’ve too many words to write,
lunches to pack,
ideas to answer
before I get lost,
or really, it’s found
among the granite
and cool mountain streams
where dreams
begin at the source,
on these peaks where I see the first glitter of sunrise,
silent and fresh,
no words spoken,
no words needed
except the nodding of my head,
a reverence of prayer
in the ordinary
that is so magnificent, and humbling
with my quiet breaths in cool air,
love as love,
breathing out prayers
in morning sky with clouds soft like cotton candy,
wispy and sticky,
like the blueberries that fell on the kitchen linoleum,
that I wipe clean,
whispering John Muir’s words, “The mountains are calling…”
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Editor: Emily Bartran
Image: Pixoto
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