John Muir danced over glaciers. He
Hunkered down to chat with new
Acquaintances among the plant people and
Grieved when they drowned in damned reservoirs.
Coatless, he bedded under bent boughs,
Warmed by climate-changing campfires.
Emerson missed his invitation to breathe
The star-spangled midnight air.
Thoreau would have leaped onto the ledge
Behind the waterfall to view the moon bow.
“Hang on,” John tells us. “Jam your fist
In the crack. Scrabble for toeholds.
Sway in the storm, rooted in wildness Eat apples and look at the larkspur, ” As his mother advised. Above all,
“Savor the taste of good bread. “
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