The Trinity River rippled silver
under the charred rocks
of last season’s fires.
Needle thin pine spines
silhouette the ridge,
crows ignore the highway to cross
the valley.
We climb the mountain, in the slow lane,
our pilgrimage gains a thousand feet,
then glides, inland, toward the heat.
Our conversion turns as slow as asphalt allows,
we break to hear the streams quick splash
become a sun warmed prayer
for progress.
The cathedral of the wild,
road angels dip the running water
to baptize travelers in the sight
of Shasta’s snows.
