Hecker Pass

The road to Mount Madonna is long and winding.
A two lane highway that wends past field and fence.
Once I break free from 101’s four wide rivers,
and the rustling eucalyptus wraps me in its scent,
then the open hills of horse farms close around me.
And the rows of vineyards ramble side to side.
I can dream again as life seems to find some ease,
and I'm on the way to where the white deer hide.

I drive on Mount Madonna mornings in the springtime.
When the sun plays catch as can past branch and leaves.
Where white stags joust and call their names in misty tones,
and wildflowers can be tasted on the cool, early breeze.
The peak of Mount Madonna in the hazy morning sun,
is wrapped alone in clouds seen as downy white.
A light rain falls only there, even as the fog is on the run,
the sloping flanks already warm with a clear sky's light.

I watch the variety of Mount Madonna mornings in the summer,
from behind the wheel of my car as I drive on by.
From when fog holds you close in blinding, soft, grey arms,
to when gold dapples earth and emerald gleams against azure sky.
Redwood and oak are the forest's crowning glory,
revealed in stages as mist takes turns hovering high and low.
And I remember why it is I love my homeland once again,
as just a little of the California beauty moves me so.

I look forward to Mount Madonna autumn,
when the leaves and acorns will fall in browning spray.
The park is the mountain’s heart, the white deer its spirit.
Cloud-pale stags and hinds dance the ancient, fallow way.
I will bring them wild acorns and the grass that they can’t reach.
I will admire the stags for power and fawns for youth.
I will feel the noses of the hinds soft as silk against my palm,
And in their boundless eyes try to read my truth.

I know that Mount Madonna can be dangerous in the winter,
when the wind and storm and rain all come to play.
The twisting road remembers a time before its paving,
and the mountain recalls its wilder bygone days.
The white deer can be as fractious as the season.
As dangerous with hoof and antler as a gale.
Remember that their taming is as passing as the moon,
which ambles freely among the stars, to sing the tale.