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Driving to the top of Mohawk Mountain

a week before spring,
trees still stripped,
distant fields and snow still
glimpsing through.
Loggers have been working here
thinning the forest
for the younger trees--
so the "pardon our appearance" sign says
as if the woods were under reconstruction--
on the cusp of spring.
Driving through the woodchips,
around the logs stacked in same-length piles,
tires tracking through the sand
from a winter of tending snowfall--
up the narrow way,
above the tree line
where the March wind still howls
like a tamed lion.

The mountain top draws us in--
seeing in every direction
beyond what’s seen,
finding a point beyond which we cannot go
without wings--
feeling the passion of a night bug
against the screen door
again and again.

I am struck by the silence
and air so crisp
it snaps like two fingers
quick together,
then apart.

13 Mar 04


© Copyright 2004, E. Granger-Happ, All Rights Reserved.

Contents - Lent, 2004




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Document last modified on: 03/21/2004

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