The Immensity of Existing Things

In the land of dramatic,
Snow-capped peaks, the forested
High hill appears nondescript,

Far from a lake or a stream.
One hundred people standing
Atop each other’s shoulders

Still couldn’t see over it,
But, in its context, it’s hunched,
A green hillock in the woods.

This is the perfect beauty,
The one you could overlook.
Right now, as clouds drift over,

As an ordinary day
Being spent evading chores
Rotates in oblivion,

As it should, you can study
The ten thousand trees of it,
Dozens of species, their shades

Receding smoothly upward
From the base to silhouettes.
There’s so much repetition

Filled with so many details,
And you know that a million
Microscopes could never see

To the heart of all of it,
But here it is, unnamed hill,
And, yes, there are wildflowers,

Purplish-pink, sky-blue, and gold.
And, yes, small white butterflies.
And, yes, birdcalls, and the roars

Of trucks and motorcycles
Somewhere down a hidden road.
Sure, there are probably bears,

As well, coyotes and deer,
All the usual, for here,
But no, there are no postcards,

No social media posts,
Probably never will be,
Which is why there is this poem.