The view before me,
of rising peaks, snow-bound
or ragged and brown,
the horizon filled left to right
with no end to the earth’s
curve in sight,
it sits, still as a breathe held
as condensation rises
towards a camouflaged sun.
I wonder if I am even standing here,
belong in this spot, on this shore
of a becalmed lake,
for my image does not
overlay the greys and whites
as they step towards me
on ripples met by a lowering sky.
This grandeur has never
required a spectator,
the rays peeking through billowed air
as it marches cross this vista,
flawless and pure.
And surely I am just an after-thought,
a comma on this point
in a direction found
when the mind is emptied
and arrogance has fled before awe.