On the Mountain
BY JOHN HAINES
We climbed out of timber,
bending on the steep meadow
to look for berries,
then still in the reddening sunlight
went on up the windy shoulder.
A shadow followed us up the mountain
like a black moon rising.
Minute by minute the autumn lamps
on the slope burned out.
Around us the air and the rocks
whispered of night . . .
A great cloud blew from the north,
and the mountain vanished
in the rain and stormlit darkness.