Reaching The Summit

Foothills
of the Santa Ynez
-
Our silence is the aftermath
of steady climbing. Near an oak
we pause to glance back down the path
where dust drifts off like tawny smoke.
-
Before us stands an old line shack,
its central beam long toppled in,
the front wall split and weathered black,
its staggered door patchworked with tin.
-
Beneath the oak, sedge grasses grow;
a broken pipe slants off dank ground,
and threads of water overflow
the open throat, devoid of sound.