There she was
In the middle of a mountain path
Resting, for the climb had not been easy.
Sweat beaded on her upper lip
And circled armpits that had started
Fresh at dawn of day.
Drenched also her hair hung limp
To shoulders square and muscled.
This was not her first climb.
The sun is high, almost straight up
Shade is rare where trees are stunted
By roots that go not deep. The rocks prevent
Tall oaks. A bird cries, “Thirsty” The climber
Pauses, thinking of the spring that flowed cold
From the bowels of earth an hour back,
Foolish bird, does he not sense the wet air
Where waters flow?
A deep breath, another step perpendicular, almost,
Her pick digs in to wound the flesh of stone
And draw her upward to heights unknown to most.
The vista changes with each blow. There is no path
Here, she ventures now where few have dared to go.
Another step, another blow, the sun descends,
The breeze begins to chill as shadows dapple rock.
Strong hands grow cold, heaviness sets in on
Weary feet, thirsty now she pardons foolish birds
Who cannot sense the water where it flows.
The sound of pick, and labored breath, of wounded
Flesh slammed into care less rock, she misses hold.
“Oh!” the sound of human cry startles the bird which
Curious remains nearby. Foolish human, the bird’s
Quick eyes take in the stain of red on mountainside.
Doesn’t she know that hers is the valley and mine the
Off he flies to take his fill of water flowing fresh and chill.
Smirking in his feathered pride he doesn’t see the pick
Descend once more and then again. He’ll never know
The thrill a human knows when cresting one more ridge.
She stands upon the pinnacle of towering heights. Her hot
Skin cooled by Heaven’s breath, she peers into the vast
Eternal depth of valleys shadowed by day’s death
And takes her rest in the company of stars.