Saturday, December 1, 2018

Mt. Whitney

If you listen carefully
You can hear the voices on the wind
Echoing down the canyons
Reverbing off the granite towers
Cascading in the falling creeks
Scattered in the leaves of autumn

Voices that ring through time
Encouraging to explore the old ways
Showing the paths through the darkness
Singing to the rhythms of the ancient drums

Voices of the past
Ages and ages ago
Calling to journey along with them
To the high mountain halls of lore

The song of the Otzal Alps
From the Italian and Austrian borderlands
Frozen in ice for thousands of years
Had been released from it's bindings
And sent around the world
On the notes of its renewal

The song flowed out of the passes
Raced down the glacier carved valleys
Traveled long over endless oceans
Swept clean in the prairie wind
Slowed in the western desert sand
And rested amongst the peaks
That loomed over the sagebrush in bloom

A song older than the Piutes
Who gathered pine nuts in the pinyons
Who sang of Tumanguyah
The old man who sits atop the mountain
Judging passage to those who hold the code

The tune found one from the forests of the lone star
Tended the flames inside
Gathered it's strength over the years
And spread like wildfire across the land

Sending smoke up among the goldening birch
Swirling in the clinging lodgepole
Rolling over steps carved in the rock
And soaring above the treeline

Following paths covered in new snow
And settling upon glacial remains in the shadows
Locking in again in the talus and ice
Home again for a handful of millennia