sunlight still glares off the road like trumpet sound.
Birds still thicken the air with messages
at dawn, a telegraphy that fills the morning
too full for one pair of ears—
one might as well listen with the whole body.
And then take that listening
to the base of the mountain whose creases
are dusted with snow already sure
of its place before the months lengthen
and darken, each crystal soon to be fed by
clouds and swells of wind that will drive it
into deeper configurations.
Then the mountain will glow faintly
even at night—especially at night—sculpture,
perfection, apparition that will pour an is-ness
over each dormant bush and distracted eye. Even now,
even those who have never been on speaking terms
with God have no choice but to open
to something that sears and consoles
beneath jackets newly unpacked for the season: how clouds
and their leavings change the light on the mountain
but not the shape of its silence.