Hogg Rock Vista, 2010

A notice of runes carved by worms under the bark

of a stripped and fallen trunk is the first sneaky clue

along the mild ridge-line that a forest has hidden marks

that are easily missed in late autumn's leaf filtered dew.

Distracted at first by the scenic view of fog ruled tides

made by white mist in the rippled murky vales below,

it's hard to tell the blue sky from blue ground, besides

patches of bright hiker nylon then rise and voices echo

not as humbly silent as the voiceless creatures underleaf.

Working sideways sans the fussy serifs of civilized noise

but slowly across the rotted and wooden hole-filled sheaf,

the runes are a sonnet where no clock wound and poised

is ready to rudely tick and tock the climb to something new:

atop the crags of Hogg Rock, under heaven, with nothing to do.