| Abstrakt: |
Under those shining lakes, those bright sun-dancing waters, granite caught and forest kept, this long gray plain of bone dust, this cold and cloistered silence. Standing on the bottom of a lake half-way up the high Sierra; a rime of gold leaves from bankside aspen, are sunset clouds in the mirrored surface; soft mud billows, set spinning by the streamers of my breath rising. I have seen this crenulated country unfold, spire on spire from the high peaks in the sharp pine air, canyon branch and lake glint, and all the world turning. [Extracted from the article] |
