The clouds are gathering, growing close,
Yet still the mountain huddles in the distance
Under her new white blanket of snow.
Whether seen or unseen, her bulk remains,
Looms through pink fog:
A testament to power
So much greater than our own,
Yet still made vulnerable
By her link to our shared destiny.
Who will now protect her prize possessions —
Her trees, her grass, her rocks and stones,
Her rivers and the animals
That dance and fly and swim and mate
Upon, beneath, and around her granite cliffs,
Her sparking streams and needled boughs?
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