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Weekly I’ve seen sickly Eileen
Who convalesces at La Cueva rock
Trees evergreen; granite activities
Doctors say by dawn she’ll walk

The mountain air is very fair
Yet very cold in the morning
Drifting hawks, many shifting beams
A race to get the campfire going

Mountains are like their painted stones
Granite close is like granite far
Pink with infinite flecks of black
Wondrous negative biotitic stars

Sparkling brooks, happy birds, shiny rocks
As pretty as light at close of day
Rising, setting; gravity sends her home
Yet, where she went, I cannot say