If not for mountains

The pressure is forgotten. Rocks are still here though. Older boulder heads jutted out from the hillside.
Flipping birds off to the blue sky.
Lichened into smiling, sharpened grins slicing shoes.
Leftovers of weight chewed up by time.
Root gripped and green grass headed.
The pressures that shaped their minds far behind.
Barely scarcely remembered been so dismembered.
So it is easier to sow seeds in dirt and let
soil tell the story. Of mountains. Mounting pressure.
And time. Of boulders and great massif crowns
and lichen the color of lime eyes spread open wide. Upholding the sky.
Which might be much lower otherwise.
The sky may even come down all the way
and touch the ground
if not for mountains.

Ground Fire

Shhh. Shushes the wind. Fall is falling in. When it only wanted to get its feet wet. 

Now we are drenched in wind.

Squeaks the trees. Groaning grinding bark 

above their tangled feet. Fire in the ground. 

Roots get hollowed out. 

And all you see is smoke.

She said it was worst form of fire.

Hugging its own arms and legs as it gets torn apart. Eaten by the breeze like a river swallowing creeks. There is an ocean in the sky.

Birds swim, they don’t fly. 

Trees filter like ferns for light. 

And vines vy for their height.

Same as eyes. Stared up. 

Open. And out.

While autumn shushes all, gold leaves fall,

and tall trees shake bare fists and shout.

Time has come. And like strong steady wind.

It whispers.
Move. Or be moved along