Foothills
The Mountains.
Far away,
they ripple the Earth
like someone snapping the sheet of a bed,
sending waves of hills
to intrude upon the plain.
The Mountains.
The car strains as the road heaves
from the first of the foothills,
and the heart quickens pace
in anticipation . . .
The asphalt begins to wind,
a meandering cord
hugging the toes of a giant,
still sleeping far away.
Memories of an early morning departure,
a long ride across the plain,
burn away with the haze
under a now beaming sun.
The last of the plain falls away and below.
In an hour's time we will be in another world.
In an hour's time . . .
We surge on, working harder.
With every crest we climb
a new vista is unleashed,
each horizon superceding the last.
Ripples!
of Earth,
messengers–
vanguard of the Mountains
beyond.
We tread upon their threshold!
Drawings, poems & music © 1986 David Erskine
info@pineshadow.com
Oakland, California