ALPINE AUTUMN

We sipped from the spring,

the thick scent of dewy grass and dirt 

permeated my eyes and nose,

while the water, the WILD water,

scurried down my throat like a 

cute little ground squirrel,

happily hopping along the 

boulders and scree.

We talked on the trail, 

conversations climbed and curved

like the Eddy crest that peaked to our west.

We filled our mouths

from the maze of manzanita, 

bushes and berries,

those "little apples";

tiny but potent

dark abundant orbs,

a forager's dream of

zesty, sweet and sour snacks.

We entered the dragon's gate 

to Porcupine Lake,

pine cones dotted the forest floor,

but one-potent-full-one,

hung like a chandelier, with 

sparkling and sticky sap-drops.

We crossed a narrow saddle,

a dried meadow,

with a trinity of thistle,

surprisingly, still standing sharp while 

Shasta views

were distant and smoky.

The burnt white yarrow 

stood still and crisp,

and the yellow lupine was gone.

Alpine autumn has taken hold, 

and the spring blooms, now dormant,

can be seen and smelled soon,

in winter's dreamtime.

Dream with me, dear lover, 

we can find ourselves next, 

on a bed of rose petals, 

you can choose the color.