Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Shasta Bally

Sitting on the roof of the valley

it disappears to the south in summer haze

to the east, in morning sun, rises Lassen

streaked with snow

to the north sits Shasta, a lone cloud playing with the peak

to the west the Trinities, jagged gray edges, white flecks of snow

On top of Shasta Bally, the quiet dominates all

looking down at the vast expanse of where we live and move

it spreads out, beyond the limits of vision

we think nothing of it as we drive across it every day

miles rolling by

we think everything of it as we drive up the road to Shasta Bally

each mile an accomplishment, a small victory in the dust of summer

to rest at the summit, and in seeing, understand

1 comment:

  1. Shasta Bally

    They were just antennas after all,
    not spires of ancient gold, at first hidden,
    then made golden and secret and sacred,
    then burning at the first spark of dawn,
    at the peak of a mountain, below,
    still the darkness of the night's fading stars, and thermocline layers of cold fog.

    There, above the silver, hot horizon,
    at the peak, in the sky, an alabaster castle,
    of indistinct towers and obscure shape,
    distant, unapproachable, unknowable,
    a child's remembrance of a distant wonder
    which can never be clearly seen or touched or understood, but only dreamt.

    They were just antennas after all,
    I knew that all along,
    but I was not diappointed.