An A.T. Morning
the top ridge of the Appalachian range
suffers a trail to snake along it,
so that we two-legged mammals
can experience the audacity of the rock reaching high,
the physical challenge of winning each step up
and navigating each step down,
I both need to know and respect my body,
and its efforts,
and to know and respect my soul
with what it sees and feels along the way:
spruce and fir trees that hold and prosper,
often buffeted by grey clouds,
that also live this high up,
the Cherokee had a deep respect for the power of this evergreen.
today I also savor the birch trees, the beech trees,
the Indian pipe,
the many mushrooms,
all the downed trunks almost swallowed by the ubiquitous moss,
all darkly green and filling-in any space possible,
periodically an orange-red jumble
where trunks have rotted toward humus,
and seem to be torn apart,
it's high summer and the heat in the valley is oppressive,
the humidity up here is so high
that I lose pounds of sweat
as my body tries to cool
from the stories rock makes me walk,
yet we find it wonderful
that our bodies can still hike the miles up and down the ridge,
that our souls can still marvel at what rock and flora can create,
a great owl erupts from beside the trail, as if to remind me
that we humans share this world with other fauna,
we are visitors, for others it is home,
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