Winter Storm, Yosemite National Park

4

The mist falls over the peaks,

And mystery surrounds the meadow.

Strange shapes loom from the shrouded sky,

Jump quickly out of gray

And quickly back,

As if afraid to be seen.

Lake-top and stream-top

Dance in the pitter-pit splatter,

And add their own mist

To the flowing gray cloud-rivers,

Sneaking silently down tree-lined pockets

To rest in the ghost forest.

A sheen touches rocks and grasses;

Flowers sparkle as the gentle splash

Rinses new life into the world.

God is renewing.

God is.

Tuolumne Meadows

August 14, 1976