Indian Summer
Color lingers on the highest peak;
the sun’s muffled tones - a whisper
of yellow leaves, dry and crisp
beneath my moccasins
The Mountains beckon with distant sound
A waterfall that trickles down, and further down
the unseen path I climb, ever higher. . .
Concerns, like rocks are crushed to pebble.
I am nowhere; and everywhere sage
and lichen at my feet and infinity over
my head like a red hawk; its silent path
is alive and sacred in this place
This is Indian summer; November, marked
by unremarkable time and space
Deborah Russell, © 2004
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