August 2008
We climbed in a grey wind,
you my barefoot daughter,
contemplative like me,
pausing now and then
to study the workers
toiling by an ant-hill
or the glitter of a far cliff
emerging from a cloud.
We climbed steadily
toward a radio tower
with its array of microwave antennae,
wind-warped chain link fence
and signs warning
of dangerous frequencies
as in another age
pilgrims might have climbed
to a wayside temple
and a sacred pool.
We said little,
sharing the ample stillness
of a mountain afternoon.
An ease crept between us,
we who often find words
too difficult.
And so we paused, drinking in
the wide green valley of the Gunnison,
the muted silver of the river
and the shadows of the mountains
beyond the clouds. Their shoulders
held in the light, unseen,
I felt, palpable enduring rock.
As we started down, we heard
far thunder, and then
a volley of nighthawks
swept over us, crying fiercely.
I said, “They are fleeing
the storm.” “No,” you spoke
in gentle correction,
“They’ve come to hunt
in the early darkness.”
Down the mountain
we made our slow
descent, me occasionally
stumbling on loose stones,
you, more sure-footed behind me,
careful of the small
toilers underfoot, collecting seed
at the end of summer.
—Marc Hudson
Reprinted from O Tempora! Magazine.
Hudson is professor of English at Wabash.
