In the heart of the mountains, I hear pines singing and admire waves of grass pushing and pulling in meadows. Heavy clouds wield themselves against blue space. At meadow edges, forest gates stand dark where slender pines grow side by side.
I enter a quiet thicket where sunshine sifts through dense branches to touch an organic floor. The woods go on for miles, creeping.
There’s something very queer about high mountainous areas, or plateaus where aspen rattle; where young pines grow among dead ones. I can barely sort out their rotten, crumbling shapes. It is a cemetary.
Laying down on mossy soil, my mind crawls though mysteries. I hear the footsteps of a Sasquatch and the deep breathing in his chest. What a dream! I believe in this creature. Maybe he?s a friendly shadow in sync with earth’s quietness?
Things exist that we cannot see. I’ve spent my lifetime wandering the Southwest and I’ve heard the unusual noises whispering on windy days, or perhaps it was my hallucinogenic imagination?
I’m careful not holler with fear when alone in the mountains, faraway from roads ‘n trails. Deer, squirrels, and chipmunks visit my campsites. Maybe some day the mystery will find me alone. I fear unknown things. Often I wonder if it’s a fear of cougars, bears, and mentally-ill coyotes? Something is spying on me in the deep. The trees have eyes.
To Dad: Thanks for making me aware of the tempest inside.