Where Names Vanish Above the line of trees,
flowers bloom from a jumble of gravel,
lichen paints the stones vivid colors,
I watch a patch of snow become furry,
grow legs and walk.

I scramble along the rocky slope
in pursuit. I bend to the earth
where its hooves dug into mud,
inhale the odor of animal.

At the edge of a cliff I sit a moment,
tossing rocks off into the fog,
mist paints my flannel shirt white,
my breath blows in puffs, thins,
vanishes.

Soon, I'm hiking the trail
down into the forest, then
I'm in a car speeding along a narrow road,
the radio broadcasting news.

And when you pick up the map, point
to a line winding up a mountain, ask,
What's this trail like? I pause,
return to that place in the fog.

My mind scrambles for words -
those blunt instruments
that carve primitive statues
among the nameless stones
of thought.

The word rides my breath,
dissolves into air, vanishes
like a stone thrown into a cloud.