The sealed jar of artesian water
near Kwan Yin’s right hand
has rested on my altar for nine
years—since Dane and I were whited-out
south of Marmot Pass. We traversed
a wrong ghostly spur.
It was late, an uncomfortable
bivouac likely.
A quick compass reading
through opening fog
pointed to a trail trace
far below.
We came to the spring we call
The Source, drank deeply, filled bottles,
walked to the truck by flashlight.
Five long miles
in dark rain.
Big Quil watershed, Olympic Mountains, October, 2000
(No. 69 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)