Coming out of upper Cameron Basin,
then along Lillian Ridge where
mountain wizards craft energy candies
in rock grottoes under
full moons.
Beyond attention, effortless airy
shadow inspects rock slides,
stubby grasses, dried
bluebells and asters.
Marmot monks,
stationed like signal fires,
rip the silence, lump
toward burrow holes.
Raptor vision,
swift shadow,
echoing whistles bring an urgent
scale to the land.
Forget pain in knees,
long day, heavy pack.
Breathe the distances,
find a place
to hide.
Quick!
I had been backpacking alone for several days in the northeast Olympic Mountains. On this, the final exhausting day, I was in a near trance when a red tail hawk changed me into an Olympic marmot.
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