Shenandoah

we met the dog at the foot of the falls.
the air turned cool at the touch of the mist.
the dog’s nose tickled at the mist
and the scent of our sweat
and fruit.

Shenandoah sits between the Blue Ridge and Appalachia.
people tour its worn spine,
splayed open by time,
under shifting skies
and departing earth

dust, rain, and people, make falls.
dust carves the rock’s edges.
rain smooths them and fills their wells.
people decorate the rock
and give it names.

“A River through the Spruces” or
“The Beautiful Daughter of the Stars”
are potential etymological interpretations of its name.
but Nature has no name.

imagine a world with no wind.
only a tree’s breath.
every morning, a deep yawn.
branches reaching for honey,
until the sky runs dry.

the dead aren’t buried.
they are sewn into earth
and left
to cradle fruit
and bear their roots.

imagine no god.
no stories.
no time.
only the hum of feathers
and raindrops seeking shelter from the heat.

mountains open their mouths
to drink in the light
until they are full
with life
and wet.

we sit around this mouth
on this mountain
to soak in
all we can see
and name

while I imagine myself
in the belly of the daughter of the stars.
with the dog,
and the trees
and the mist.