This Is My Mountain [Keep Your Tiny Hands Off]

This is my mountain. I know its changing. Its mornings are my surprises and its storms are mine.
No one asked you to come here. You are not worth even the midday clear. Go back to your sunny
city and flat glass ocean window. Your leather shoes are not dew-crumpled, are not rain-stained.
Sir, you have not seen the river, and it does not miss you. It might find you, but it will not know you.
This is my mountain. Its fists are my fists and I’ll tell you they hurt. You don’t want my tumbling
bruises. Stand there and glance at false peaks but stay off my hidden ridges because summer
streams run empty. Throw your words to golden eagles—they will let them fall. These valleys are too full
to echo. Know your place in the quiet and the comfort. Do not travel. This is rock not clay.
This is chalk not sand. This is hard rock that isn’t asking. This is my mountain.

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