The Sierra Nevada

Granite laid bare,
the old batholith showing
its ribs of stone,
once buried deep,
now naked to weather
and the thin, high air.

Glaciers scoured here —
their ice, a rasping hand,
cutting Yosemite wide,
planing El Capitan
to a sheer face,
polishing domes smooth as bone.

Tarns hold the sky
in their stillness,
blue bowls where snowmelt gathers.
Sequoias root deep
in the sift of moraine,
giants steadying giants.

Rivers rush down,
split for sea and desert,
their waters carrying
the mountains’ memory
to far-off fields,
where grain bends in the wind.