The mountains came late in life to me
or I came late to them.
Like a desert river, I am slow,
meandering through canyons and carving sandstone,
lazy and muddy and deep.

Breathing hard from the uphill run,
I look out over what I still think are foothills.
No jagged, rocky peaks these,
just miles of rolling scrub oak, ponderosas, and snow.

The moon rises in the pink streaked sky
and I am clear, bubbly, sparkling.