I see you, Mr.
Snyder, reading
Milton by
your flash
light, the moon
light, but
mostly by
your own light,
resisting
such a grand,
round will. How
would Milton
think on Sauk
Mountain, with
the horse
flies, the lists
of ridges ringing in
his English
mind? The
flames you spot
in God's
world--
cleansing, renew-
ing--are to him
a scourge, the
God-eyed souls
of trees
flaking into
tinder, manna
falling from
the sun.
He needs to see
the talus
crumble, the
burned pinecone,
its sheathes
twisted, the
black grasshoppers
lunging into
space. Why, if
all is foreordained, do
you wedge your
being into the
trail that winds
up Glacier
Peak, saying
as you kick the
stone in good,
"There, you
sucker, that'll
do you," when
you know the
snow, the run-off,
when the dry
bed swells,
will rip it out
again, and
another year
will be lost above
the tree line.
You get thrown
out of Eden, again
and again, so
often you get
frequent hiker
miles, through
there's almost
no place left to go:
just one high
pass, no
yews or fern to
shelter sun, a
small stream, not
inviting or forbidding
you to be
yourself:
"adhamah": the
dust whirling in
the August
heat at eight-
thousand
feet, the
valley safely pinned
to earth.
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