by Barry Yelton
Early in the morning when the sun lifts its head
above the blue horizon
and the rooster sings his atonal song,
the spirit is lifted almost absurdly
given life’s circumstance.
Here on this showy crest where blueberries grow
and a grumbling black bear ambles
through, taking her fill,
I stand, breathing in the vernal air
of the new day.
A Neil Diamond song about freedom and music
runs through the morning
as we explore the high country
like tourists from Mars.
There is no greater freedom than that found in the mountains,
where no alarm intrudes or schedule inhibits.
They are places of solace and hope.
Somewhere deep in tribal memory they reside
those highlands of Scotland
and wooded hills of the Rhineland,
where ancestors fought bloody wars,
lived in caves and ate raw meat.
Even they stood at times on hilltops
and wondered at it all
and even now their dust
fills the valleys
and they rest in their final emancipation,
their song of freedom
forever wafting on ancient winds.