The peaks around here look down
across the patched blanket of fields and forests
seeing all and seeing what lies beyond
the time of men and small shadows.
They see their own faces,
they know their own names
without being told:
Loowit of the lost sylvan shoulders,
Wy’ east of the pendant throat,
Klickitat of the white fox fur coat.
What maps know is what mountains forget
in the blink of a winter’s eye,
the storms washing their faces of any misgivings.