Dew Drops On Frisky Mountain Poem by John W. McEwers

Its a cool sheet morning,
four feets stretching and itching to climb
frisky mountain for some morning dew.
A mouthy wind blows the brown grass
swaying to the whispers of ascension.

I call you Sir Hillary
as you ready your ten greasy sherpas
to lead the way to the summit.

And we climb.
Oh, we climb.

Four feets scramble for footing
in the 400 thread count snow
and a low moan rumbling
shakes the earth

Buckets of dew
Buckets of dew.