{Foliage and Peaks}

It is hard to be still

in this disappearing world.

I move through it.

With treaded feet,

I touch it.

Through my camera’s eye, I see it,

and too, the Lone Ranger of old Hollywood,

in the ancient boulders,

among stone arches.

His horse’s hoofs beat the ground,

I taste the stirred dust.

{Whitney Range in Winter}

My grandest mountain,

Whitney,

towers above the surrounding hills,

where there’s little water,

but the cottonwoods don’t mind,

their roots find enough.

{Leaves and Stone}

In Autumn,

the trees yellow,

my boots leave my mark,

my camera lets me see,

my shutter clicks.

Never,

disappear.