Flight of an Eagle

They swell out majestically
across the sky, just
jagged pieces of rock, grown into
giants. The top is covered with a blanket
of white, like a head of hair on an elder
that is wise and ancient.

I close my eyes
and watch them rewind
to the past,
when they are small hills.
No
snow.
Out of place.
Young,
ignorant.

I gaze through shut eyes
as the Mountain Ghost
swirls out of the hill’s soul,
a smoke that is a dark, royal
purple. It encircles the young mountain
in an ocean of gloomy sadness.
But it is not sad. Not anymore.
The sinister smoke fades, and in its place,
a golden glow flows over the rock.
Creating long blades of green grass
that are like emerald waves on an ocean.
The flame of gold
weakens, and a silver stream
trickles down the rock,
a river
of wisdom,
curling down the cliff.
plunges down the edge,
a silver waterfall.

I do not dare open my eyes.
I do not want to lose this never
before
seen image of the
past to leave my knowledge.
I wonder what else is hidden beneath
those mountain chambers.
What are the other secrets?
Who is there?
calling my name?
Whispering inside my heart?
Telling me the words
I am forbidden to know?
But the secret is uncovered.
I know what this mountain really
is. But
what is it?
I do not know.
It must be something that
nobody else
can see.

This image of the mountain fills my head,
blocking out any other
thoughts.

If I open my eyes
will I see what is really there?
Will I see something else?
What is there left to see?
Am I dreaming?
The mountain Ghost
whispers in my soul
that it is
not so.

I force my eyes open
and detach my claws
from the thin peace of bark
from the small tree that sits atop
the cliff.
I fly over the silver water fall
that still blocks my sight
from what is supposed to be there.
But what is there?