By Michael Moran
I found a little clearing at The Basin
Where I’ll sit and watch the waterfalls,
wash the sweat off of my arms
with the frigid water, and get this poem
out of my head after a day of running
over those green ranges. I think
it’s a poem about the mountain...
Or maybe
A mountain with a poem to write:
Probably many poems, all about lovers
Who met on top of summits with
June birds, black flies, wildflowers,
Cold rivers on hot days forever ago.
Or is this poem
About warm autumn water steaming when a cold
snap hits? Probably both because love runs hot
And cold sometimes too…
Today, my heart was drumming from the effort,
My eyes opened wider than usual. I was silent
And in awe at the summit. I had no words,
So I stopped here to find them.
Somewhere inside of this mountain,
Along with the poetry, water runs through
like the flush of blood when the heart is bent nearly
to breaking under the weight of its effort,
The rush of blood to the head leaves the mountain
dizzy and wild feeling, spent and reeling
by the waterfall at The Basin.
But, how should I know?
The mountain, watching all of this wild
love, all this time, has been too busy
each summer to have ever
written anything down.
About the Author
Michael Moran is a writer at Pine Coffee & Cactus, his blog about discovering the world and himself through his adventures outside. He's also an ultrarunner and special education teacher living in Natick, Massachusetts. He studied English Literature at UMass Amherst and has a master's in education. He coaches track and field and cross country for middle schoolers and co-founded the Natick Runners, his local running club. He loves to travel and spends his time with family and friends in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, the Rockies of Colorado, and the desert trails of Arizona. You'll often find him at the top of a mountain trail with a burrito in hand and a trucker hat on his head.
