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July: Gile Mountain

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Even that current rapid in the brain


like a digital signal cheeping "where


where where..." damps down in the broil of noon.


 


Below, the ponds and metal rooftops flare


to streaks. And my need, to peel the bright veneer


from the world, and walk inside, and feel my life


 


crucial as plotline... seems to disappear.


The aspens sizzle. Towers of loosestrife


shiver with flies. Somewhere a satellite


 


opens its shutter, clicks on freeways and fields.


Somewhere demonstrators, chanting, fight


to hold ground against the encroaching shields.


 


Somewhere a grizzly blinks at the sun motes.


And all that shimmering merge is elsewhere. Here


the world is oak leaf, stillness, blue. It floats


 


in the heat, goes liquid at the edge, then clear.


That digital tremor, that hard-wired yearning


saying that just beyond beyond beyond


 


real life lies waiting: even its returning


now is not distraction, but feels bound


to this fierce calm. The granite ledges glare


 


beneath the pine boughs, quaver, and the heart


flows out, right now, one thing with the others here:


shot through with light and natural and apart.

By Peter Campion

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