taylor graham
Under the mountain's dome,
a Lost Lake captures images in reverse:
sky framed by tree-line,
your face rippled as if something
turned you aside
from the trail, draws you
to a stone portal: a grassy swale
beckoning between sarsen boulders.
They open to a wider light,
to wind, and the far-below call
of water speaking
in snowmelt and fall. Down-
canyon’s deep with echo,
a scream of rushing river.
You’ll follow it, forgetting
how water makes changelings
of us if we dare its overlooks; if we
imagine for an instant
we could fly.