At the Foot of Mt. Driskill

We are but antlings, vain in our assumptions. We would
presume to grasp at the unfathomable. We would
presume to dress it as man, to give it names, to speak its
intention. Yet we are humbled beneath the shadow of true
greatness. Now the earth crest rises to meet our gaze.
We are but fleas. We are but lice. We are nothing.
Insignificant. Dust motes blown away by the breath of
time. Vague memories of no consequence. Vanquished
are the fires in the eyes of the friends I knew. Just as they
are deafened to my wasted breath. Each one more
wasted than the others you can bet. Now I see through
the illusion of permanence. I am diminished in the
presence of vastness. Useless are my tools of science, of
religion. There is no understanding of limitless power. We
are at peace in our minor, subordinate role. Accept our
frail, short lives.