Every tan rolling meadow will turn into housing
Freeways are clogged all day
Academies packed with scholars writing papers
City people lean and dark
This land most real
As its western-tending golden slopes
And bird-entangled central valley swamps
Sea-lion, urchin coasts
Southerly salmon-probes
Into the aromatic almost-Mexican hills
Along a range of granite peaks
The names forgotten,
An eastward running river that ends out in desert
The chipping ground-squirrels in the tumbled blocks
The gloss of glacier ghost on slab
Where we wake refreshed from ten hours sleep
After a long day’s walking
Packing burdens to the snow
Wake to the same old world of no names,
No things, new as ever, rock and water,
Cool dawn birdcalls, high jet contrails.
A day or two or million, breathing
A few steps back from what goes down
In the current realm.
A kind of ice age, spreading, filling valleys
Shaving soils, paving fields, you can walk in it
Live in it, drive through it then
It melts away
For whatever sprouts
After the age of
Frozen hearts. Flesh-carved rock
And gusts on the summit,
Smoke from forest fires is white,
The haze above the distant valley like a dusk.
It’s just one world, this spine of rock and streams
And snow, and the wash of gravels, silts
Sands, bunchgrasses, saltbrush, bee-fields,
Twenty million human people, downstream, here below.

At Tower Peak – from No Nature by Gary Snyder. Copyright© 1992 by Gary Snyder. Online Source

Alone in the woods I felt
The bitter hostility of the sky and the trees
Nature has taught her creatures to hate
Man that fusses and fumes
Unquiet man
As the sap rises in the trees
As the sap paints the trees a violent green
So rises the wrath of Nature’s creatures
At man
So paints the face of Nature a violent green.
Nature is sick at man
Sick at his fuss and fume
Sick at his agonies
Sick at his gaudy mind
That drives his body
Ever more quickly
More and more
In the wrong direction.

“Alone in the Woods” by Stevie Smith.

With our bodies for percussion we dance around the fire,
listening to our animal instincts, the sounds we can make
with our hands, hips, feet, legs, arms, tongue, mouth, lips;
we know it is not by words, but by meaning that we communicate.

We aim to unite our restless spirits with the Earth, to assimilate,
to find ourselves in the yoke of a mountain and not to wake to stir, but to stare
and settle into a liquid force. Still we twist our waists, shaking the
fringe to separate time into the beats of wooden beads as if saying, “No, no, no.”

Low drums pound in the distance, faster and higher into rattles.
The snake bites only if you slow down, so no one falters;
we’d keep spinning if only we’d burst into feathers and never be
heard from again.