There is Something About These Mountains

There is something about these mountains,
in the spring melt, giant faces of granite, dolomite, gneiss, carved by glaciers,
streaked with dark grey where the water runs down hundreds of feet.

There is something about these mountains,
the pines and firs singing in the wind,
those beetle or fire killed skeletons outshone
by the vibrant growth of new life,
their scent on the wind.

There is something about these mountains,
the clouds moving so fast from nothing to puffy wisps
over peaks to sheets of grey dumping snow and back to gone,
blue sky and sun the most real.

There is something about these mountains,
the song of semi frozen lakes,
the cold night air a sharp canvas for bright stars,
the raging river of released water in the foothills below,
a never ending wide ribbon of white:

it all assures me that I am meant to be here,
that I have some sacred purpose, if only to breathe this air
and appreciate these mountains;
that I am meant to marry my soul to the soul of the world
and to sing soft melodies of love
to the places that wait patiently
for years 
outside of the human realm. 

There is something about these mountains.