a hot spike of adrenaline
sluices into my blood
not a shot, a squirt, or a drip,
but an adamant flood
if you can find someone who gives
you that kind of feeling
without fearing a certain death
but, still, with mind reeling
From out a rocky mountainside
juts a sinewy limb.
Its existence appears brutal
and its future ever grim.
It hangs on by roots pinned in rock
dangling over the edge.
It’s splitting up that rocky crag
as if an iron wedge.
It feels the wind that whips around
that abrupt precipice,
and when the clouds envelope all,
it must feel perilous.
But never will that old dwarf tree
bemoan its cliffside fate.
Or curse the addition of a
hawk’s, or raven’s, weight.