The Sunday Poem: Sierras from Above

From heights we learn that nothing’s very high.
These seams on earth, as raised as stitching, are
The tyranny of gravity made wry.

The mountains: hands, folded and folded, turf
Brown hand upon hand upon hand twined overlapping,
Quiescent, senescent under blanket earth.

Softback, spineback, brokeback, extruded round;
All life, from here, is mold discoloring
Rock, a growth that could be wiped away.

There is a loneliness where aquifers
Reach spindled fingers in the lightning of
Erosion, and do not touch.