where the writers are
Giant Ledge

It was not strictly a climb, but

a long, strenuous, nearly vertical

hike to thirty eight hundred feet

where the trail emerged from the trees

to reveal a magnificent view.

 

Ahead, a giant rock ledge hung

over the precipice, on which you

could sit dangling your legs over,

if you dared.

I was at that age when one

thinks he is indestructible

and will never die, so I dared.

 

The peaceful valley stretched below,

its trees seeming like miniatures

fashioned for the model of a forest.

 

God was alive then, too;

his voice rumbled in the distant west

and rolled over the panorama.

 

I felt like a king surveying

his domain; serene and content.

But this was many, many years ago

before anyone I loved

had yet died.