Mountain Waves

The mountains roll like waves before our eyes, but go nowhere. Treetops sway, like a million ripples, carrying an invisible current across the landscape; pulling mysterious debris from one shore to another. On the western horizon the sun is setting. It peers intently, with its red eye, into the skeleton sea, for a moment, before visiting the other side of the world.  We are on the rocks watching the display. From our perch we can see everything for miles and miles. Nothing escapes our gaze: the rocky wake, the porpoise pines, the coral limbs. Everything finds its way to us.

Our eyes penetrate deep beneath the November surf to uncover a sunken ship; a lost treasure. From our protected nook we observe its final resting place, and make notes of its position. Details are scribbled on the pad; coordinates are sketched on the page. We record all that we can in hopes on one day returning, when these wild waters are calm and the sun’s golden rays are bright. And on that day we hope to recover the beauties of a treasure discovered from atop this knob, above the mountain waves.

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About Jeremiah Dowling

I write poetry and take crazy pictures in an Orange Chair all over the United States while reading amazing books.

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