Black Butte
At the end of the trail beyond the black burnt snags
of white bark pine vistas open up towards the top.
Mt. Jefferson rises into the silver layered clouds,
its peak buried in the tufts of gray billowy masts.
The craggy peaks of Three Finger Jack jut up to the west.
Mt. Washington stands solid and erect to the south
below a regiment of white saucer-like clouds.
Farther on the trail to the north the fire lookout towers
into the patches of blue sky.
This mountain was struck by lightning in July.
Only the trees at the edge of timberline caught fire.
The rest of the subalpine forest survived.
Two hawks soar across Green Ridge to the east.
Chipmunks gather at my feet as I toss them
some nuts and seeds from my trial mix.
A gentle mountain breeze blows from the northwest.
More chipmunks scramble over rock piles and granite boulders
for scraps from my lunch.
Most of the balsamroot and larkspur have lost their blooms.
On the way back down I spot a lonely red indian paintbrush,
its petals pale and fading in the early autumn wind.
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