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| Mt. Davis in the farthest distance |
From this field
when the leaves have fallen
you can see over the corn stubble,
across these worn-down mountains,
and all the way to Mt. Davis,
the highest point in Pennsylvania.
With a good pair of binoculars
you might even make out
the locally-famous fire tower,
which of course is even higher
up the zigzag metal stairs,
dizzying for see-through spacing,
Each thundering step
ringing like a kettle drum
with increased risk
until you reach the top,
breathing hard, heart thumping,
and chance it all, or so it seems,
proposing there,
above the grounded millions,
you sentimental hasmuk.
The highest ask in Pennsylvania,
the leap, she shrugs it off.
She's unafraid of heights but is no jumper.
She offers you instead a parachute of sorts,
honored, humbled, all the rest,
to break your fall,
so you can drop and roll,
bloodying your knees,
but avoiding permanent disability,
kind words because, as everyone knows,
she is kind and has the common touch,
and they are grateful for her patronage,
and they thank her very much.
Still, it's a long way down.
—with a nod near the end to Simon and Garfunkel.
