(Philmont Scout Ranch)
Before we join the tender grasses of the Earth each night,
My last glimpse is up towards our cosmic quarters,
Which give me the solace of knowing our simple home...
Photo: The Road Prose: Lone Cabin
I haven't had warm air run through me in at least a decade. I've been through the torturous winds and snows of the mountain every day, for years. Who would decide to build a cabin up here, anyway? On this desolate peak. A cabin is supposed to have fire course through its walls every evening when the sun goes down, and the smell of hot cider as well. Instead, each day comes and goes without stopping to say hello. There come no visitors, not even animals this high. But today is different. Three shadowy figures approach through the blizzard's howling winds. What could they be thinking, coming up here like this? Can they not tell by the look of me that all you can do up here is slowly die, until your walls fall open on every side, and your roof caves in? Driven by the shiny summit, people do the stupidest things.
The Fall of the Sun
Evening clouds part, silently screaming,
Lost in the sun like morning mist,
Cornered by the zenith and horizon...
Bone A Fide
A bowl of mountains keeps the the scope wide and the life wider,
A life trapped in the bondage of time,
Whose bone hangs heavy in the museum of the unfeigned...
Fading Fire, Emerging Ice
I gaze at where the clouds dance around the sky,
Forging the ice of dusk to the sun's fading fire,
Adding climax to a glaoming serenity...
The Valle stretches far beyond the trails of Philmont.
It exposes a portal from the everyday,
allowing the weary traveller to rest within his own mind,
if only for a little while.
Entering the home of the bear,
the Valle brings the horizon onto peaks
that tower over the rest of the scene
so that, sleeping beneath the stars,
you can say Good Night to the eye of the world.
The Tooth of Time looms over a pocket of paradise,
Keeping watch for the restless wanderer,
While the men and women of centuries past
Bring to life the land's history, rich in lore,
And I sit alone, breathing in the life of the Ponderosa.
An Aspen's reflection hangs heavy
in the darkness of twilight,
Home to the gasps
of a small lake trout,
And chronicle to a
once healthy forest...
Tooth of Time
An old stockade preserves the stories of old,
Home to the ghost horses of a magical land,
So majestic that even the mountains speak to God...
Slice of History
A slice of history runs through this glen,
Slave to the dying sands of time,
Harkening back to times of beauty emeritus...