Sunday, February 20, 2011

the culture of suspended droplets, riveted in sheets to the mountainside swarming, congregating, propositioning and quiet

quiet I say, as an arrangement of behavior unbecoming of quiet. quiet muddying the compass needle’s point, stung by frost -common looking quiet -until required to step through

and the curves, the swooping crowds of white pouring from the raked face of Allender Mountain, pour us as well, appearing from it’s folds without lack of clarity; we rummage through the vaporous waypoints

we are

after all

not looking for the trail

Dutch Oven Sourdough

I can almost smell the aroma wafting through camp. The river as slow as bread is to rise. A little flour and water, mixed over a hundred years ago, bubbling in a jar in a dry bag, just waiting to be as beautiful as its surroundings.

"I rolled up some bread and tea in a pair of blankets
with some sugar and a tin cup and set off."
When asked what kind of bread he took to the mountains,
John Muir replied,
"Just bread."