Mountain peaks shiver, breathe
and wiggle their foothill features,
pee behind a cloud, maybe shake
up some starter-sprouts, yawn,
cough up a couple leftover winter
storms, maybe drink some dew
that shines purple, then blue,
then melts away.
They pull up their green socks, take
them off, then put them on again,
maybe shave, then decide halfway
through that they shouldn’t have
shaved in the first place. The sun
walks by, frowns, waddles down
some cliffs then disappears.
Painting by Bruce Park