dew soaks through shoes
fog clings to everything
metal clang of flag raising, lowering
lying on angles under stars
girls tuck into dampening sleeping bags
wait for chief to come say good night
some preside at the top, worthy of the climb
lodge where we take our meals and mail and share shelter
watching the storm–sheets sweep in
chapel where we sit in rows under a roiling bell
where we sing, chant, cry,
repent, sin, fly
others crouch at the bottom, drawing gravity
stretch of pool we tumble to with towel arm–wings
faded farmhouse where the other life is lived out
rushing road that knows not our stillness
that divides the lofty hill from a flat field
its humble counterpart
boys on tractors mow slowly through the grass
time moves slowly
girls are already women
lunachik 