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
Shasta Bally
ReplyDeleteThey 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.