Mountains High

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: it reads, 1000 feet.

Though air is 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 I see a sign: 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, 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! And it's free!

Though I've never seen the Rockies,

....still, I get a Mountain High.

I still love his music; but more often now, it makes me rather cry than sing along. His untimely death was so sad, such a waste; such a terrible loss of a talented musician.

This poem has a dual dedication. First, to the memory of a great musician, and second, to the unspoiled mountains themselves.

Originally written back in the late 1980s or early 1990s, I made some minor edits in February of 2018.