Alone on Ice Mountain

For the final eight miles,

Of Cold Stream Road,

High beams pierce the dimness,

As I pass no others.

Early Sunday drives,

While the world sleeps,

Are revelries in abandonment. 

I park beside the Miller House,

Setting out on foot,

Up a similarly abandoned path.

A No Trespassing sign is for others; not me.

With authority, I ascend,

To this path’s sandstone summit,

And it’s astounding westward views,

Of the meandering North River,

And the farms tucked into its bends.

From on high,

The world seems manageable.

Trifles and travails dissipate. 

A distant tractor growls,

Diverting the spell of a beautifully quiet sunrise.

My descent is graceful;

With gravity as an aid.

I wend through towering trees,

Under arching laurel canopies,

Through an algific talus chill,

And reach, with pleasure, river’s edge.

Green water flows imperishably,

Grinding and roiling,

Reshaping its path,

Imperceptibly and patient.

I’ve been to Ice Mountain before,

In groups with leaders,

Social and scripted.

But today, alone,

Free to wander,

And interpret the splendor

In glorious self-regard.