Chugging through the valley, along a flat straight road;
Traffic whizzing, heat, oppressing--mountains faint through haze.
I know I cannot stand another long flat mile,
Then, I spy an elevation marker: 1000 feet.
Though it's still hot, my mind feels cooler.
John Denver's "Rocky Mountain High" plays on the tape.
In my ears, a pressure--swallow hard--and then again;
Feel the "pop," just before "2000 feet."
The road is narrowed, climbing, now;
Valley starts to fall behind, the mountains seem less coy.
3000 feet--trees now offer welcome shade;
A hawk and defiant crow are my company now.
I see a jay, a deer, more trees; more kinds.
The air smells pure, unspoiled.....green!
4000 feet--I have arrived!
All the gold in California is not in a bank or a mine;
It's here: it's the mountains themselves! it's free!
I've never seen the Rockies; still, I get a Mountain High.
John Denver--Gone Too Soon
I still love his music; but more often now, it makes me cry than sing along. So sad, such a waste; such a terrible loss of a talented musician.
© 19/9, C.E. Carl; © rev.9/62; 1/96; 5/96, C.E. Carl; © 2/14/10, C.E. (Carl) Elias; © rev. 2-16-13, C.E. (Carl) Elias
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