Each climb to the high places brings
a question: will I come again?
The wind blows, the crow swoops by
on silent wings, upcurved and still
on the flying air, and I no longer
earthbound feel the soaring
and wonder when the flight will end.
The spacious air mocks this
introspection, calls me to
the briefly precious moment
on this thin-earthed crag
where the rock glints hard in the
noonday sun and the fool’s gold
shines at my fingertips
and the downward path curves
into the purple afternoon.
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