Nature’s Camaraderie

When you write, you can't think about what another will like. If you are happy with it, then you are. If others find interest in it, then great! Wonderful! But it is doubtful it will ever mean to them what it means to you.

This poem is about a man and wilderness. A lonely place that often forces a man to come up with his own friends. Going alone in the outdoors has certain qualities that I like. One of the most appealing is discovering who you are. One thing I discovered is that part of who I am is seen in those I call friends.

My conversation with you, Oh Mountain! My conversation with this WIND
that walks with me like a dog who loves without limit and gives without question.
My conversation on this cold wintery day as I wander meadows and forests
with WIND bursting through tree branches, covering me in millions of tiny crystals -
blinding me! And those flakes on my face quickly melting drip down my cheeks
and as soon as I fear I’ll be forever engulfed, the wind falls away and swoops ahead
hungrily devouring every trees snowy burden as far afield as my eyes can see. But it returns and I am again greeted with snow.

Such a loyal friend this WIND.

Hours later, I reach a pass struck between rock and ice,
now having risen far above the forests, far enough up to bring me closer to the sky
where sun and cloud dance with blue - where light soothes the soul from cold chill of shadow – where blue sky appears lost for the day, except for the WIND which pulls away the white and grey-shadowed pillow arms and again blesses me with rays of warmth,
pressing me upward and onward with renewed confidence.
But before I leave I look up to be sure the wind is still there. And of course it is.

Such a loyal friend this WIND.

Now climbing up a rock-studded ridge toward the summit, I dally with gravity.
My careful, mindful progress grips my minds every thought.
Hand here, foot there - look ahead for easy passage? Don’t fall. Don’t slip.
But clouds swamp the summit, blue is smoothered
and I fearfully grip the cold rock moistened by the fog – and – my attention is severed from my perilous work
– My hand slips! My foot slips! And just as I feel FEAR wrench at my heart,
WIND whistles through the rocks and howls as it comes dashing. Woe was I now to find my footing so close to being lost and at that moment, as I put my mind at ease, I reach the top in a few final moves where, Oh Mountain! I tell you of my friend the WIND.

Such a loyal friend this WIND.

Looking across to the next peak, Oh Mountain! I can see snowy slopes.
And two snow devils racing in circles, and I cast small pebbles toward them,
knowing they will never reach so far, but I feel camaraderie.
That I, too, should be among them. It is then I leave mountaintop for valley
- for the warmth of home. Although, as I turn to go, the wind holds me prisoner.
Rushing from the west then the east, rushing in all directions.
Rushing into my face, my side, my back. There seems to be no reason to it?
I remain steady, festooned to the rock, to the Earth. The will of this place overcomes me. I am beholden to it. And, Oh Mountain! beholden to you. But I do not forget the WIND and I take it along, all the way back home through the meadows and forests,
beyond the snows ‘till I am in the comfort of home. There I send the WIND to fly among lingering fall leaves until once again the mountains call.

Such a loyal friend this WIND.