The mountain lies stretched out
in light of spring,
settled back under snow-filled scars.
It has suffered fire and farmer,
been shaved by loggers,
gouged and hauled away by quarries.
Still its hairs grow
at their cosmic pace,
its muscles sweat clear streams
and ripple in the sun even at their ease.
Our days flip past like mayflies
and we wonder where the time went.
The mountain stretches sleepily,
embodying an ancient mocking dare.