Of the Mountains By Annie Clark

There, the river -- dancing down this valley
with lacy caps on every lazy eddy--
it simply streams
through teeming reams
of florid stone and bone till, ready!
flings itself off mountains with a yell.

See there, the scree, the mountain's bleeding knee,
an open sore with pocks of shattered stumps.
The lichen drips
and rips and tips
and tumbles in a burst of greeny lumps
to feet, thrust deep in doleful trees.

Look, those trees, the closest-knit of families
to every living breeze held sturdy captives.
At night they sigh
and cry at the sky
in the silvery light the moon, generous, gives,
and through the bars poke fingers toward the stars.

Far away the fires fill every flickering valley
then come, dashing on the flashing wind...
the learned yearning
of pithy burning
sears the captive family and pauses, pinned,
as stars release the rush of summer rain.

Annie Clark is a sophomore in the house of Susan B. Anthony and is from the beautiful state of Colorado. She would love to teach philosophy someday, which is appropriate because she is married to Leo Tolstoy.