Locals talk about mountains
and I believe them but I don’t

see what, or where. They are
gesturing toward the inevitable,

changeable sky—an intensity
of gloom, billowing blue-gray

enough to obscure the mountains.
I look, though, each morning,

through the small window: a tree still
wintering—all statuesque and reaching—

like a woman frozen in the midst.
There is frost this morning and the tree

holds small dark figures I could mistake
for tiny nests but what they are is tiny birds,

puffed, holding their own warmth close.
A cloud shifts as I watch them, sun

dazzles, and the birds burst
like they’ve never known stillness—

the sudden range of snow-topped mountains
strikes me a blow—there—there!

As a girl, I could watch the grayscale
of an Oregon ocean on a rainy day

for hours, until suddenly the dark dome
of a beast, humpback or gray—and me

almost not able to believe it, such a thing
existing but at different depths, with different needs,

and yearnings—I want to tell her,
that girl, that I’ve finally remembered

how to hold myself still, to let what I can
pour into me, to let what must fly away—

—Rebecca Brock

Poet’s Website

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