Archive for the ‘Wy’east’ Category

Eastern Flame


the mountain seethes

the mountain glows

The sky brightens

alight with his fire

dark with his smoke

magenta warmth through the haze.

Is it volcano dusk

the end of everything

or is it dawn

the beginning?

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Blue dawn

Deep blue sky

blue river

Sleeping city dressed in black.

A suggestion of a mountain in the east

darker blue against the paling sky.

A suggestion of clouds above

tinged with pink

as if he has smoked all night

thinking volcanic thoughts

as if he were responsible for the overcast above.

As if he flexed his dormant strength,

reminding humanity of his potential.

Faint magenta lines appear behind him, growing

as the sun approaches

returning to claim ownership of the fire

loaned briefly to the dreaming mountain.

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Misty mountain

Floating on a bed of soft cotton clouds

his base wrapped in fog like an invisible blanket

the mountain seems unreal, faded, wispy, dreamlike

pale, translucent against the morning sun

delicately drawn in soft charcoal on the blue-white horizon

and then brushed away, leaving only a shadow.

Strange that the summer mountain should seem so remote;

his winter cousin stands out so sharply at sunrise.

Perhaps after the clouds of spring

he is not yet ready to show himself.

Perhaps as his snowy winter blanket recedes

he is shy of his bare slopes.

Perhaps summer is when he rests.

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The mountain

The mountain is called Wy’east, for a chief of the Multnomah tribe. He is a fighter, for the love of a maiden or against a rival chief. He has slept these past 200 years, but will waken again someday.

In the meantime he shares his mighty slopes with hikers and skiers and intrepid climbers. He has been known to take life, but he is not treacherous; the brave know the risks they take. From afar his snowy shoulders seem so peaceful, so gentle, but a warrior lies beneath.


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The falling snow patters softly on my hood. The rest of the world is silence, stillness. Black trees, gray sky, white snow; delicate wisps of fog. Our footprints vanish beneath the new snow, as though we’d never been. Powdered sugar, creamy icing on a towering wedding cake. We cross the frosted moonscape as if exploring a distant world; there is nothing beyond the trees.

Winter wonderland indeed.

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A view of the mountain

I never get tired of the view. The mountain wears a cap of clouds but the sun reaches down its slopes, sparkling off the brilliant snow. The snow calls to me. I hear the stillness, the gentle melting sounds, the crunching under my feet. I gaze, and my heart is warm and at peace.

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