|Along Washington’s North Cascades Highway|
Rolling down your rock-ribbed sides,
Like one weeping in the keeping
Of a watch that e’er abides.
Above the poem was etched the profile of the surrounding peaks.
I may never see that spot for myself, but whenever I gaze at one of our mountain waterfalls, I think of that unknown miner with a poet’s soul. I imagine him pecking away at the rock, leaving his words for someone to find, many years in the future.
My reality and his are starkly different, but streams continue to cascade down the sides of mountains. People still desire to leave behind something of themselves after they are gone. I feel connected.