Rocks
(Spokane, late November, 1971)
I can sit alone in a desolate landscape
In Devils Canyon
On the scree fan. And look
Across the valley.
All I see is rocks on rocks,
Standing pinnacled or cragged against the sky,
Standing grey and cleaved against the rocks,
Above the fallen stones.
Rough to touch, dry and warm in the sun,
Harsh and wet in the rain,
Cold under the snow.
To others these are no more than this.
But rocks and I share a communion of understanding.
I know these rocks, how they came here, when, and even why.
To me all are different and individual; no two alike.
I understand the crags and the fallen stones.
I sense the foundations and the spirits of those
Gone before, marching down the valley to the shores.
If, tomorrow, rocks were to come alive
I would be their friend and they would love me.
For I know their spirit and love them.
Rocks, cold under the snow, warm under the sun.
Unimmutable, if others did but know it.
There's a mixture of science and maybe religion here - see the verse Near Hadrian's Wall. "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills…"