High on Steens Mountain
by Gail Denham

We’d driven high on Steens Mountain.
It was October. The aspens were on fire
with gold, brilliant yellows, faint oranges.
Huge groves of trees rattled autumn news.

As we wandered, it seemed the aspens
whispered their songs just for us, holding
nothing back, reminding this was the time—
hours ticked away fast till winter
would still their music.

Slowly we ambled among the white-barked
trees, listening. It was as if the heavens
had opened and sent a festive beauty holiday.

These aspens had held court here for over
a century. Back then, Basque sheepherders
guided their flocks to these feeding grounds
for the summer. But perhaps boredom drew
drovers to carve their art on the white bark,
permanent evidence that they were here.

They carved voluptuous figures, their sweethearts’
names, caricatures, hometown symbols, sayings,
leaving deep dark marks which remained. This
artistry made the aspen grove more precious, living
history of what this part of the country had been.

Bright yellow leaves turned inside out in the wind,
showing little black ribbed holograms. I wanted
to lie on a grassy cushion and simply listen.
Rest here awhile in the peace.

That night I dreamed of tree music, of how the
Basques bedded among their sheep on quiet nights.
Perhaps they also enjoyed the aspen chorus as winter
approached, and sheep were herded downhill.

And that winter, as snow, hail, freezing nights
socked us in, I could shut my eyes and imagine
the brisk, rustling music from aspens that
had performed for us. The wonderful aspens
of Steens Mountain.


 

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