The Mountain Like A Lion Poem by Stan Petrovich

Windsor Seep was dry and covered
with pine cones and dirt; on hands and knees
I could never have extracted water
there for my barren tongue to lap.

The saddle, with deer plentiful
as pests, huddles my tent and me;
where I saw the spinning stars
against the towering twin peaks.

My boots were wired to my feet,
kicked by rocks and prickly pear,
whose fruit I'd had to eat
for the juice bound by a thousand neddles there.

Then, another night.
The winds of autumn howled down the peaks
like javelinas,
yet the mountain itself was a lion,

Looking me between the eyes,
then pouncing.