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