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Poem	I was welcomed here—clear gold of late summer, of opening autumn, the dawn eagle sunning himself on the highest tree, the mountain revealing herself unclouded, her snow tinted apricot as she looked west, Tolerant, in her steadfastness, of the restless sun forever rising and setting. Now I am given a taste of the grey foretold by all and sundry, a grey both heavy and chill. I've boasted I would not care, I'm London-born. And I won't. I'll dig in, into my days, having come here to live, not to visit. Grey is the price of neighboring with eagles, of knowing a mountain's vast presence, seen or unseen.
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