at Lick Creek Lookout

We’re pretty well grounded. Nonetheless,
when Thor starts heaving out big ones
from low hanging
pyro-cumulus,
slamming them out,
god muscle to iron on iron,
hammer on anvil,
what horse will wear the shoe
he fashions? What link in the chain
he forges will ever snap?

And he’s heaving them now at 8,000 feet.
Big bolts of electromagnetic force.
The pure thing. The thing itself. Das Ding an sich.
No additives. No preservatives.
Just huge bolts of energy. Positive. Negative.
The yin and the yang.
The dark and the light.

Not to mention the rain.
Heavy sheets of it pelting the windows.
And ice chunks. And hail.

And all of it shouting, you fools,
you don’t belong
on this rocky knoll. You humans,
with your contour maps,
your compasses and comforters,
your down sleeping bags.

I can take you down
any time I choose.
Blow you beyond smithereens.
You wouldn’t even know it.

But I keep you around
for amusement,
for my entertainment. What fun,
after all, would it be
up here without you?

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