PINUS CONTORTA

Coming around the final red rock
a group of which perches precariously
on top of each other
it had been a steady climb up
the last thousand feet, ascending,
reaching for the infinity of a cloudless blue sky
having seen the top blonde rocks
those that might have been whitewashed
in the sun up there for maybe
a thousand thousand years

these had seen the cultures of man come
and go, likely some blood shed in doing so
and also clean births of new stars
with the meteor showers

the pines growing up there
twisted , moved about by the winds
and events that danced around
their brown and red trunks and green limbs
reaching for sanity
from the frailties of men.

There was a hearth circle
in the only flattish place up there
cinders in it nearly washed away
by the rain of time’s passage
still, a few were nestled
around the inner border of the circle.
A rock overhang overhead
carbon from the smoke stained it’s roof
a testament to the antiquity
an intensity of flames leaping, swirling so long ago

what shit had been shot while seated around
watching the fire’s anesthesia
shadows on faces, so far off in the dim past
the conversations have blown away with the smoke

no synthesizer music here,
likely a soft native flute
perhaps some drumming on a nearby log
or the resonating rasp made of armidillo shell
moving the rhythms of those seated
in conversation, on the events of their day.

Did a light-headedness come from a new birth
or perhaps a discovery of delight
of a successful hunt
the careful killing of brother bighorn sheep
enough to feed all of them
along with finding a new chert vein in the rocks
nearby, to make their projectile points,
or did a darkness come into their lives
like a terrible encounter of a loss to sister catamount
who was also hungry for fresh warm meat.

The pines are twisted,
moved by the human discourse.

Strength remains, even when the wind stops.
Poem Copyrighted 4/2023, Ray Whitaker
Photo Copyrighted 4/2023, Ray Whitaker