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
and all things are one thing to this earth
Here on my mountain.
-Fonda Clark Haight