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are muted here.
Analysis and rhythm
acquiesce as Earth's intent
and Nature's hand concur.
Its mist-enshrouded or illumined face
bequeaths in shifting times a sense of place.
No wonder the Shoshone Utes
pitched tent along the stretch
beneath the towering heave,
chose here to live and die, to love and hunt.
Nor that its storied chiefs in leaving
grieved the passing of an age without reprieve.
Before Zeb Pike, this mystic hill was theirs,
the pristine view, the changing winds and steep.
To cyclic seasons they were early heirs
and over prized bequest did vigil keep
until their simple glory went to sleep.
As shadows stretch to lengths beyond its height,
and the sun retires a day on its rounds
the mountain hides its contours under night
just as dark forces changed a people's bounds,
and hushed in history their ancient sounds.
© Temp Sparkman
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