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Incandescent heat is cooking deserts down
below.
Despite the sun, there’s nonetheless a morning chill
Upon the mountain
Launching shivers up and down the arms.
There’s not a breath of wind
Around the peak to stir the silence.
I
Enter in the tranquil piñon forest
Where the earthbound mourning doves
Are strolling blithely up the pathway
Almost underfoot
Until reluctantly they take to flight,
Revealing feathers white in aftermath,
Impatient to return to ground.
II
A fallen tree branch makes
A crude but handy walking stick
Cementing popularity with hikers’ shaggy dogs
Who come with friendly greeting,
Wagging tail,
Then slyly grab my staff and try to steal away,
Employing charm to mask a brazen four-paw theft. .
III
Descend a slope, and suddenly a loudly rushing stream
Half-cloaked by trees announces its domain.
Beyond it, yearning for a photo,
Meadows spread with luxuries
Of undulating mountain flowers painting fields impressionistically
In purple, yellow, lavender, and red.
IV
A breath of warming rising wind from desert’s floor
Has activated quaking aspen too,
Setting leaves to dance seductively.
These towering growths bear writing-paper bark
Accumulating myriad names inscribed by lovers:
“Sally Bill,” “Anita Juan.”
You ponder if their love affairs
Have lasted longer
Than inscriptions doggedly preserved
By mem’ry-perfect trees that must be
Either cynics or romantics
Of the most incorrigible kind.
----Tesuque Creek, N.M.
©2005 by Paul Hertelendy. The illustration is from IMSI'S Master clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA. This column first posted Sept. 19, 2005.
Paul Hertelendy
is a critic with the San Francisco Bay Area arts website www.artssf.com. To visit his website, click
here:
PAUL
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