Singing To The Mountain

This morning, as first light seeps over the mountains

and drifts into my valley,

I will stand on the sandy crest behind my home,

face to the glowing peaks,

and I will sing to the sunrise as she wraps her arms

around the summit.

Vibrant green from sweet winter rains,

canyons and rock falls emerge from soft shadows,

coaxed into the day by a paintbrush dipped in

orange amazement.

I will add my voice to announce the unfolding.

The melody will be measures of greeting and gratitude.

I will cup my hands around my mouth

and I will megaphone

the fortissimo 

of my heart.

Mountain sheep will lift their heads from dewy grass,

soaring birds will swoon in the updraft of delight,

atop the highest peak aspens and pines

will sway in the vibration  of 

note upon note.

Little gray rabbits will stand on their hind legs,

twitching their ears;

even the rocks will pulse 

in the crescendo

of sheer joy.

My companion in song

will be the tiny desert wren

perched on the highest branch of the mesquite

behind me.

She glories in song.

She will be the descant of all creation,

the combined voices of every living thing that

cannot hold back the praise.

We will exhaust ourselves in song

until we can sing no more.

Then,

she on her high altar perch

and me,

sitting in the hand of the warming earth,

will listen to the echoes and

reverberations

returning as the mountain's reply.