I dreamed I saw John Muir at dawn

I dreamed I saw John Muir at dawn,

cutting steps into cedar-shaded snow

on a hillside in the high Cascades,

a prophet’s fervour to his shining eyes

as he hauled in the summit ridge,

its crest his latest lodestar.

“What’s it like ahead?” I asked 

“Uncertain” he said, “But follow

my footsteps down to the canyon,

then white water until the trailhead.”

“The thing is, John… Aren’t you dead?”

“And what is that to life, right now?”