At the Continental Divide, water 
divides from water. 

The mountain 
drops beyond perspective, and you 
travel with your eyes, 
trace the stony edges, 
the rise and fall of ridges. 

Lost in crow distance, 
you stand in mute witness. 

Your soul rises 
above the body like fog 
rising off a sea, 

you laugh in the moist 
language of clouds. 

You hear somewhere the random 

flap of a butterfly, 
see the air 
	     swirling off 

faceted wings, changing the weather. 
A gust of wind 
slants the fall of water. 

Mountains reach up, 
funnel the rain. You 
follow the streams that follow 
jagged contours of rock, 

down to a distant sea. 

Bio: Gary S. Rosin