#97 HIGH COUNTRY LOW
#97 HIGH COUNTRY LOW
(Americana)
The marmot whistled, sharp, shrill and loud,
My tent -- High Sierras, just off the path.
Then he chattered, his dark eyes unblinking,
Unhappy at how long my visit might last.
Top of a pass, day one, breathing hard,
Towering view, but more uneasy than serene.
Somehow bored by the burst of colors I take in,
Deep blue sky, slate grey rocks, meadows light green.
I climb to the sky, to find my alone,
Stargazing beneath Lodgepoles, far from my home.
Can't find my peace in the peaks and the snow,
The one thing I've found is a high country low.
Two days hike in, then onto this steep overlook,
Right before sunset, just me and Fuzzy's long face.
A face she'd call adorable if she were here,
But she's no longer joining me in this place.
Alone on the trail, late spring waterfalls roar,
Dusty winding paths all seem wrong, not like before.
Now silently watched by peaks covered in snow,
One thing I can't lose is this high country low.
Fuzzy whistles one final time, then heads off home
The alone I now find is a different alone.
The mountains just measure what's right
and what's wrong,
Tomorrow I'll leave this place I no longer belong.
Last gasp of sunset -- bright gold under dark blue,
Mountain meadows now quiet until first morning dew.
Verdict returned by peaks heavy with snow,
Not easy but fair -- this high country low.