The Wind Rustles

The wind rustles through the aspen leaves,

And I think about how unfamiliar they seem.

The mountains rise around me,

Not encroaching, but standing as enormous, aesthetic details,

Carved out ages ago, beautiful and threatening,

From a time before the world knew anything of you or I.

The sky stretches out above them, for miles and miles,

and I know, in the perfection, strangeness, and timelessness that surrounds me,

That whoever formed these giants out of the emptiness, 

And whoever painted the eternal, ever-changing azure above them,

Must be the one who secured the rope, 2200 miles long, 

That binds my heart to yours.