It is hard to be still

in this disappearing world.

I move through it.

With treaded feet,

I touch it.

Through my camera’s eye, I see it,

and too, the Lone Ranger of old Hollywood,

in the ancient boulders,

among stone arches.

His horse’s hoofs beat the ground,

I taste the stirred dust.

My grandest mountain,

Whitney,

towers above the surrounding hills,

where there’s little water,

but the cottonwoods don’t mind,

their roots find enough.

In Autumn,

the trees yellow,

my boots leave my mark,

my camera lets me see,

my shutter clicks.

Never,

disappear.