A poem about the secrets a mountain can tell.
One day while out on a walk,
I came upon a very chatty mountain spirit.
It was the embodiment of a huge mountain out by Devils Path.
Sugar-loaf mountain was what people round here called it.
And what secrets it could tell.
It told tales of the Mob hiding out in it’s crevices,
stuffing bodies in places they shouldn’t.
It spoke of hidden treasures,
deep with in the bowls of it’s caves.
Of the randevou of lovers,
of their passionate kisses on-top of mountain tops.
Of the careless city-idiots,
who leave all of their trash at their campsites.
To the slaughter of the Native Americans
and the curses they left behind.
The Mountain has seen it all.
It has withstood the slow etching of time.
It will out last you and me.
Maybe if humanity doesn’t carve it up or sell it off to the rich.
But the mountain was in a chatty mood.
Telling these tales, and each one more interesting than the next.
But the sun was setting, and the trail was still long.
So I said my good-byes.
And headed down the trail.
Not leaving behind trash nor tripping over dead bodies.
Just trying to stay on the path in the dying light.