a sabbath poem, in the eastern sierras


her breathing:
deep, heavy, slow

the creek makes its noise
as i hope it always will

we are surrounded here, hills on all sides
no hill the same.
Whitewashed Too-man-i-goo-yah stands tall and sharp.
his siblings try to mimic him.
they are only slightly shorter, duller, nearer—

no less splendid

to the east the long rounded slopes
hold death at bay

in the middle, a crowd gathers,
climbing slowly, suddenly,
a backdrop for all things

she maintains her steady breathing.
resting, she sleeps late,
until the light and heat are too much, and she wakes.
breakfast, and a slow and quiet day ahead.

22 september 2018, while camping in the eastern sierras

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