They are not dead,

just old and slow to move

They sometimes sit for a century

before they shift their stones


Below them aspens chatter

all summer

in unison with the wind

and meadow grasses


No one knows what mountains hear

Maybe they were born deaf

When mountains speak, they speak

in streams and howl through canyons


In mid September

when aspens lose their leaves

mountains can still be heard

Go into their caves and listen