the ground

I have descended from this peak because there is no other place to go. There is no life at the top, other than the wind whistling through time twisted pines, hunting down scars of small flowers which still dare to breathe the thin air.

I want to know what lies behind the ground, what forces swell the earth, pushing it into the sky. I need to find these immovable secrets. But they are silent, and I do not blame them. The precedents for stolen treasures are too unnerving.

I swing a hammock between two still standing oak trees. Get in. As we lie here, the mountain sunlight follows reality into her grave.