We have not mountains, but mounts, truncated hillocks To the Adirondacks, to northern Monadnock, Themselves mere rocky hillocks to an Everest. Poising their shapes Between the snuff and red tar-paper apartments, They mound a summer coolness in our view. A rise in the landscape, hummock or hogback, looks To be meant for climbing. After the horizons, stretching the narrowed eye To full capacity.
Tops define themselves as places Where nothing higher's to be looked to.
Here on a mount overlaid with leaves. And paints the river's pale circumfluent stillness. As roses broach their carmine in a mirror. Cars run their suave Colored beads on the strung roads, and the people stroll Straightforwardly across the springing green. All's peace and discipline down there.