In my life, I always return
to hear this song
play over and over.
A pianissimo
floating through tall cedars,
a trill of a piccolo among Douglas firs,
muffled drumbeats of boots on soft hemlock cones,
the creak of my pack and
a rustling on the underside of my existence.

out of the forest
and onto the green sward of meadows
I climb.
Seurat would have died for this,
the land readymade pointillist
with lupine, pasqueflowers, and lilies
against a cerulean sky.

And floating off the mountain,
above the glaciers,
the strong, clear notes of an alto sax.