The moon casts a white shadow across the mountain height,

And silhouettes it against the calm of the darkness.

I look in awe at the majesty, splendor and might,

I am overwhelmed by its grandeur and feel smallness.

The mighty slopes ascend on high through the mist,

That forms a wreath in white and drapes around.

The top appears thru the white wardrobe like a fist,

As a mighty warrior is armor clad for battle bound.

A cloud passes by the moon and a shadow is cast,

It feels its way up the slope to gain the summit.

Then retreats as the battle is lost, and the light hast,

Won the victory until the shadow again must plummet.

The night hawk glides thru the unstirred air,

Searching for his mate at heights that are frightening.

He turns his head, humbly from the mountain’s stare,

And soars away in reverence, as his heart is tightening.

The full moon bathes the mighty mountain with its soft light,

Covering it like a mother with tenderness and loving care.

Allowing the mist to loosen its grip it held so tight,

And drift slowly, endlessly to the gentle meadow fair.

The mountain has seen much in the ticking of history’s clock,

Empires rise, kingdoms fall, and nations have slipped away.

But the mountain sits firm on a foundation of solid rock,

And as all pass, he will observe the next God given day.

By Theodore A. Cline