There is the view of trees that are worshipped,
changing shade by the turn of leaves -
the birds whose panel of feathers shackle inconsistent
attention -- the watcher feels only for its sight -
the wind storms that pass like a ruffian
through the tall growth, and tempt the mountain peaks
with a burial -- it speaks through the torments of its speech.
From the mountain's flat top, she surveys beneath:
the wind from shifting, the vibration from stepping,
the dissonant echo from separation that would raise the faces
to protection, the frantic inspiration to hold another
in the release of your self - her presence sits awake
without dust, the eyes seeing its reflection.