Sarak Mountain Poem by Michael William

This is the place where small stars
Are thrown from the manes
Of running horses

The place where solitary feathers
Float down from the sky
Far from the wing
That once held them

This is the place where the river moves
Like the eye of a raven, where the owl sits
Silent
A stitch in the wound left by winter.

This is the place where the wind
Spreads through the pines
And takes
The memory of winter’s cold
From the skin of the rocks

This is the place
Where we go to watch all the reasons
We hate ourselves
Slowly fall away