“What are men to rocks and mountains?”
― Jane Austen
Here’s my brief poem “The Mountain”. I suppose it’s about the idea that everything we know is limited by perspective.
THE MOUNTAIN
The sunrise is a pale gold mountain from below
the dark oak canopy of the mushroom log campground.
Now and here, where a great blue heron stands
and crows forage for human odds and ends,
it is not a mountain, but the Mountain.
From inside the green tunnel vision of shadows,
it is the sunrise,
it is the morning.
Here it is now. It is the Mountain.
Carl Robinette 
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