Millions of years ago a glacier
-like the pinpoint tip of a paintbrush
in some celestial architect's hand-
carved off the ridges
and peaks
and rough edges
off this valley,
like a frigid finish sander;
leaving sparse patches of
smoothed-out, tiger-striped gneiss
that permeate a background of
grass and scattered boulders.
Picturing the area's native peoples
-humans, deer, rabbits and porcupines-
meander across it is too easy-
but what is even easier is moving across it.
The word "running" doesn't really
fit-
it's more of a fast-motion jig
crossing feet one over the other
and tiptoeing
from rock to rock to rock
five feet at a time
until, at a pause for fresh air,
you realize you've crossed a whole valley
under sun's watchful gaze.

We spent the day here,
just across the border between the man-made
and that which made man,
whooping like madmen
under sun's embrace.
Emerging,
some indeterminate moment later,
burnt,
but enlightened
in the truest sense
of that word.