Eagle’s High.

Eagle's High.

Just above the timberline,
	The Balds and bare branches
beg a steel grey sky for solace -
		some relief.

There’s a palpable desperation here,
	spread out along the ridgelines,
and down into the recesses
	and dark crevices
that cut like daggers
	into the granite outcroppings!

And have no doubt -
	The Stones feel it,
		rough-edged and cold,
	though they be.

Their Granite existence
	may have been exposed to weather,
		and worn down by the glaciers
	of an Ice Age long forgotten,
		but their feeling is still acute.

Raw. Ragged.

Scrubby bushes feel it too -
	the few that manage to grow,
with a mindless green determination
	that defies any shred of common sense.
Even the air feels the pressure;
	its meager moisture condensing into Ice
so it can remain,
	at least on the North Face,
where it hides from the sun,
	and rimes itself with Hoary Frost.

Few animals travel this far up the Mountain,
	except when lower climes force their hands.
They bring desperation with them -
	skinny squirrels and underweight mice
looking for Bittersweet berries
	or some forgotten Pine Nut
		that never got itself free of its cone-y home.

This High Anxiety high land
	is Eagle Country too.

Unlike everybody else, though,
	they come for the adventure,
		and the view.

Sharp eyes can track a mouse for miles at this altitude,
	and the winds cast about
in a never-ending dance that seems custom made
	for Winged creatures.

	Can’t blame the Eagles, really.

Predators don’t get a good meal too often,
	so desperation feels like home.