On Sweetheart Mountain

for V.

Raw garnet in the rock beneath our feet,
we stand separate yet together—wordless,
witness to the vast valley, aching snow and silence.
Rare, stunning silence.
The kind that reminds us we’re bone clothed
in flesh, small creatures given breath.
Specks on top of a mountain, balancing on a ledge.
A bird calls out. We do not know what bird it is.
Then a Black-capped Chickadee stirs the air—
its small, plucking call leaves
an absence of sound so penetrating
and complete we can only whisper.