Olympic Mountains


the moss, the grass, new spruce shoots,

 feathered leaves impossibly delicate against their rocky base,

the brush in river valley,

the lime painted passes 

below the scree seen 

from far away…

contour and shadow, sun and cloud

outlines of ridge lines

above grey above green

holding islands of trees

and swaths of unmelted snow

colored by pink and dripping…


its sound as constant as the wind

water standing in lakes and cirque's tarns

and water falling falling 

doubling back 

catching up 

waiting to pour over rocks 

in foamy bubbly effervescence 

water appearing suddenly 

bursting from a rock face

moistening moss and lupine

clinging at impossible angles

before tumbling  a thousand thousand tiny droplets down...

soaking heathered ground

where mushrooms

the color of a creme brulee

and spongy smelling of rot stand near

small cathedrals of orange fungi

next to mushrooms of red and white

far below...

the ridges and passes

saddles and spines of rock

cracked and metallic sounding

where black lichen a close cropped afro

rounds and curls 

on rock reddish underneath

and sharp shards of shale

form cities whose rubble lie

in polyhedral splendor


light and air

sometimes bright and baking

at others wetter than water

mist and rain 

dew soaked grasses

spilling waterfalls

into boots which descend

down into valleys 

where white clouds

rise like dragon breath of not fire but fog...

panoramas where snow on rock

white on gray

seem to tilt away

following lines of orange sun 

breaking through walls of white

promising but not delivering 

afternoon warmth...


cat scat near half rabbit

marmot whistles echo 

like the end of a work shift

deers dance unafraid

waiting for salt

grasshoppers far above any grass

take air alongside

moths with stained glass wings

a raptor circles and circles

near ridge high above

the valley below….


through time there one is forgiven

by soft duff of ancient trees

by lichen almost gold

in ancient languages drawn

by green shoots of new spruce

by raw fire whiskey

by lone trees wind twisted

by the skitter dash of two evening rabbits

by curves of creeks'

slow meander through meadows

by ablutions in lake and waterfall


through forgiveness one is blessed

by mountain silhouettes

by wet clothes peeled in dry clothes dressed

by wild blueberries close to ground

by nearby hidden waterfall sound

and finally

by the star that appears

perhaps not in the east

but where all in the mountains gaze

for signs of meaning

after lying on hard ground

after breathing past the tired dull ache of. the day

after remembering the brightness of colors

after one was not sure one could reach the pass or ridge's end

after all camp stories have been told

and after all the songs have been sung

they gaze upwards towards where dreams await.

◄ Desert Landscape

Pronoun ►


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Sun 25th Aug 2019 03:10

Perhaps not in the East!...love it.

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Adam Rabinowitz

Wed 14th Aug 2019 14:53

Thanks Keith and Devon. You are too kind ...hope you are having wonderful journeys as well.

Devon Brock

Wed 14th Aug 2019 10:54

Yep, Keith said it all. Thanks for taking us along.


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keith jeffries

Wed 14th Aug 2019 10:04


no editing or alterations are necessary. Better left unvarinshed in its natural form.

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keith jeffries

Wed 14th Aug 2019 10:03


A masterpiece of descriptive poetry at its best. I feel as if I have been taken on a journey and left in awe by the experience.

Thank you for this

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Adam Rabinowitz

Wed 14th Aug 2019 06:10

So this is pretty fresh penned from the recent trip. I hope to edit it down...suggestions?

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