Here on this mountain

the chains of the possible bind and tangle

with dead apple branches, leaves and skeletal equipment.

Pockets that return from the field with the same amount that was in them to begin with

while bills flutter and flap like worn out blinds.

In the undistinguishable distance I am confronted with endless prodigal sleep

And here on this mountain now

ravens circle and argue their way into dreams and days

fighting over the scarred and blighted dreams of our summer

These perfect and private things

are realities

and all things are one thing to this earth

Here on my mountain.

-Fonda Clark Haight


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