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The View from Beacon Rock
(In memory of William Stafford whose spirit guides me in my writing life)
by Shelley Peters

You guide me along the rocky path
(though you grew up prairie).
We climb steadily
using carved walking sticks
until we reach the top of Beacon Rock.

Beside me, you stand
gazing out at an emerald ocean
of conifers, bright rock faces,
a snake of river below.

Winds blow all pretensions away.
Plain words carry everywhere.
The vista sings.


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