Argot

I wish I knew the language of mountains.

What does it mean:
the pattern of pine – just so –
on a western slope,
the quick clack-clack of stone on stone
knocked loose as I labor
up a slope of scree?
Words are written in dry washes
threading from the heights,
dry now and inches deep with sand,
but roaring thick with snowmelt
in the spring.

Some, a lucky few,
know the language of their bones.
Tunneling deep, past topsoil, roots,
extracting cores and samples
in this age when science is worth more
than gold. A more sophisticated tongue
than miners used to use,
long gone but still peeling wooden signs
lean along overgrown paths, cautions
to their ghosts.

I tread lightly on the surface
despite butterfly wing effects of loose stone tumbling
downslope from my feet.
I cannot know this place,
yet I feel at home
with these unspeaking peaks,
the quick thunderstorms and direct rays
of a much closer sun,
the brush-crashings of bears and elk,
all we creatures who prefer
this land of rock-brown, sunburnt languages,
these articulately voiceless mountains.

Written for the “Summit in sight” prompt on dVerse today. Check it out: http://dversepoets.com/2016/03/29/poetics-summit-in-sight/.

Poem by Annie Jadin, speakingvoiceless.wordpress.com.