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The lookout

August 15, 2012

Wind blows free
As we gaze across the gorge
To the distant mountainside
Where serried ranks of fir
And grass brown slopes
Beckon

We look down on cone laden spruce
And red madrone bleeding into gray
Fingers stretched toward the sky
And the lichen draped skeleton
Of a long dead larch

Rock cathedrals hover over
Still pools of water
Lying in the hollow
Of the nave

As we pick our way back
Down the needled path
The bitter scent of bracken
Fills the air

And we step aside
To avoid the fresh bear scat.

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