when you climb the thousandth peak, your hands calloused, air in grasp
and see another view, of thawing snowfall and hills that roll
with splitting sunbeams upon the horizon alighting
sloping seams running deep into valley's mouth.
and remember the other flows the ones that vehemently crashed down
and frothed and clouded and Altered until the dust settled,
and there was but a view, no harvest, no smalltown-dalliances.