The Hands of Time, a Mountain Poem
They roll across
the heavens like great gray and white sails, suspended on masks held
up by the wind. Bolts of white line fire, collide with the earth, forming
a flag's insignia against the ominous sky. With a tropical force, lines
of pouring rain showers waves against the mountain slopes. Gradually
melting, exposing bare rock that cuts against the blue sky, the canyon
walls and gorges give themselves up to continual harassment.
It is a test of
wills. The powers of nature challenge the masses of earthen forms. Wind
and water pressures the fortified walls in assault after assault for
control over strongholds of forest and stone. Year after year, day after
day it is a losing battle with the mountains as they yield their shapes
to the forces of change.
It is the hand
of mother nature that has demanded submission from marble, granite and
crystal. A billion years have taken their toll and shaped the destiny
of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
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