Returning

Returning from a weekend of walkabouts is always a disorienting thing. There is a spriritual aspect to these hikes that sometimes take a spell. In time, I may even be able to verbalize it. Until then, here's a stanza from a poem begun last year while on Connor's Nubble.

Scrambling over rocky stretches,
I gain the windswept summit.
All perspectives look ecstatic
despite the modest heights.
Each direction is a course in essence,
some spirit world of mountain, lake, and sea.