We climbed the steep granite trail
behind a ghost-train of others.
Lines of hikers from past years
or many decades gone before.
Receding far enough in time
to still feel rhythmic Native drums
and the drag of thin moccasins
by the same outcrops of stone.
Where our mountains were
weathered old even then.
Worn where we’ve rested
to view this break-of-day.
Finding tiny, shiny, mica flakes
glittering in mammoth rocks.
Left for all who wish to linger here
or even hurry past, find new paths.
Visual gifts to presently enjoy
or keep and savor later.