July: Gile Mountain


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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