When the mind is quiet

There is some solid wholeness that returns
on a ridge in the sun after winter hiking
and after drinking cold water beneath broken ice.
It always takes an least an hour for the
tumblejumblefantasy thoughts to dissolve
and leave me alone with god.

Sometimes I worry I spend too much time alone,
that my eccentric, misanthropic tendencies will
swell and no one will understand me. 
But I trust my shadow on the valley floor,
surrounded by burned trees and slanted rock.

I trust that halo around the sun
and the space inside of my bones
and the earth half hidden under snow.
I trust what I feel when
that deep presence of self
resonates and rides on the backs of the crow,
when the breath is slow,
when the mind is quiet.