High upon Dragon’s Head peak
above a place they’ve named
Valley of the Gods,
a late-day sun was set
to cede to the mist of eve,
so we mounted our descent
to camp, she ahead
as I ambled more slowly behind.
I don’t remember
her having slipped from my view
when I found myself in the midst
of an amber field of grass
where a warm wind pressed against my skin
and enveloped me within.
Had I passed through here before?
I can’t seem to recall…
perhaps it is just the dazzle of light
hypnotizing my eyes
or the rhythmic sway of the stems
and the sweet dry scent of fern filling my head
that causes this moment to stretch
and circle back again so that
I don’t seem to know
where I was just a moment ago,
hearing the call of my name
in the whirl of the wind
whispering words luring me
into the rustling reeds
to play a game of hide-and-seek
and to forever more stay
in the remains of the falling sun,
“Over here! Come! Come!”
as I turn round and round
losing myself among them
no longer sure
of what is real anymore.
“Hey, I’ve been calling you,”
“Come,” she says and grabs my hand
just as the sun disappeared with the wind.
“Let’s get back to camp before it’s too dark.
You could lose yourself up here.”
By Jason Weaver, 2018