after the blood-beat
of 10,000 trochaic breaths
it must be asked
is not a gale coursing along
the fractured fringes of a ridge
with its serrated fins flared out
not some aeolian wind
sent by the gods to haunt
the spindly spires
and gnarled notches
of glacial-carved
granite
just as those atmospheric currents
swirled around the dragon-like
forces forming cirque
after cirque
eons ago
along the continental divide
with it’s ghostly moan
that’s almost human
—they say such winds
whirl around the whorls
of the flute pan dropped
while leaving Earth for a spell
somewhere on the flank
near longs peak
a keyboard
they call it
and if the tones
ever find the right frequency
the whole spine of the rockies
just might shiver awake
for a few seconds
reminding us
why a palpable power purrs
from mountains who are asleep