This is a second version, a major revision, of the original High Hillside. Gracias to my sometime mentor for the urging.
In this dust, the scent of feathers,
of peregrine in the cedars.
This dust, ground by wind, softened by rain,
is juniper and gentian seed,
the scent of elk hooves up from the ravine.
This hillside bared by lightning
is ash in the pollen,
is sage budding above the industry of ants.
A place to bring a year and offer it
to dust, to wind-polish,
to weigh its white ribs in the light.
To be, again, a peregrine in the cedars.
