| A prism’s light caught the sight unawares.
Graceful tones of earthen ochre dance along the windswept beech,
now here and there sparkle quartz imaging the sun
and strands of seaweed sprawl lifeless, moisture starved,
left behind by last night’s storm --
a necklace as if delicately placed around a clump of rocks.
So calm now the surf laps the wet sand tenderly.
The edge glitters, then dissolves in the fading light.
Earth and foam tarry shortly together.
A spectral shimmering emblazons suspended masses
of water and vapor.
The lake is alive with light, haloed with glory rays from above,
reflected and refracted a thousand myriad times.
The sparkle moves and dances like a host of water nymphs
in a frenzied, yet elegant articulation –
winking out here, reformed a dozen dozen times there.
The water is rough now, fraught with chop;
in a moment, a split second, it looks like the earth it thuds against –
all angles and sharp faces.
Rolling hills and craggy fissures give way to sheer cliffs of
polished glass, shimmering wildly in the eternal moment.
The troughs are snow-laden valleys,
yet this land is barren as far as the eye reaches,
bare and vast until time would start again:
mountains crumble, edifices topple,
valleys heave up, and miles of ridgelines dissolve.
Over and over until the glow wanes and the lake calms again
with the appearance of liquid mercury.
You can feel the weightiness of the quicksilver as it laps the shoreline
with thick, heavy, gentle blows.
Sea breeze flailing up the cliff face,
seagulls ride it
gliders glide it
there atop a stand of pine
against the time
finely held by roots entwined
in beds of attrition
rocks of lime
windward leaning
softly keening
the breakers do not touch her,
nor the tide –
shall heaven abide longer?
The shaggiest lichen-covered pines,
the most wind-torn white-paper birch trees
line the path carpeted by layers of seasons’ past pine needles
cushioning every step.
Moose tread this way at dusk with the promise to slake
their thirst at the perennial stream winding its way
through the cavernous gorge of rock and moss,
cliffs and caves.
Red and gray shale protrude from exposed cliff sides
as erosion uncovers the work of some ingenious bricklayer,
ages past.
Sunlight is thin here – the canopy being thickly hoisted
even on the steep slopes of the gorge.
Grouse are quarreling in the undergrowth
and a falcon circles overhead,
a patient and skilled hunter.
Life unfolds at a different pace here,
marked by the falling golden birch leaves,
the birth of a rabbit in the thicket,
the waning sun in the west.
And once in the muskrat’s lifetime,
a rockslide tumbles into the stream,
slightly altering its course as it swells in the spring thaw
making miniature waterfalls over great boulders
of polished basalt.
The Spirit of the Almighty quickens perceptibly here,
high or low, grass or snow,
the footfalls are never aimless.
Each vista granted is impressed like a gift,
an offering for one soul in a thousand…
yet how can I respond?
There is gratefulness in yielding to the spirit.
Yes, give pause, and let some peace
ebb into your heart.
©1998 Carl Pecinovsky
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