A Poem Written At Smith Rock

On The Precipice

The wind sweeps above the river,
where it is seasoned by the water’s spray.
It sings and sometimes howls
through the chutes and canyons.
Scraping along the ice,
which has formed like crystal webs
between the grass in shadowed vales,
it picks up even more cold
then moves on with a hurry.
The wind is always rushing,
even though it is timeless,
there seems too much sky
to run across. And so it runs,
sometimes fast, sometimes gently,
over eastern plains and sandy deserts,
on daunting mountains and misty coasts,
through cities and forests,
between glass towers and trees alike,
running to these rocks we sit upon,
weathered shapes risen and formed just so,
that have taken years we can’t count to,
in order to stand so high.
From on these tall rocks
we can see the valley and the fields,
the river, its host of mallards, and the banks we walked along.
Stone columns and far ridges draw the skyline,
and the sun colors it with inks of orange, pink, and blue.

The wind gusts up the cliffside over the precipice
and into our moment,
washing away weariness.
I can feel the very sky we watch in the distance,
swirling around us, carried in the wind.
It’s a young wind,
I know by how it feels on my skin,
cracking lips with its rough touch;
but also by the way it dances, uninhibited,
in all the spaces in between.
It gives generously, and begs to be breathed deeply.
It’s a cold wind.
It’s a good wind.