Standing up on lifted, folded rock
looking out and down --
The creek falls to a far valley.
Hills beyond that
facing, half-forested, dry
-- clear sky
strong wind in the stiff needle clusters
of the pine -- their brown
round trunk bodies
straight, still;
rustling trembling limbs and twigs
listen.
This living flowing land
is all there is, forever
We are it
it sings through us --
We could live on this Earth
without clothes or tools!
-- Gary Snyder
