Santa Lucias

The highland Santa Lucias breach the angled bench of sky and earth with ancient crests dark in scrub oak outlines and vast open slopes. From that world above atop the grand and cresting vistas where once dreams were fetched in moonlit profiles from deep slumbers I must have also dreamt the unmoving mist as it gathered near an unnamed summit drawing to itself weightless fragments of light and motion. It was a mist concealing a spirit speaking the language of unfathomable contours giving way to more contours overlapping downslope and over the last oaken ridge. Was this a language of my childhood mind as I sought to wrangle meaning from this alien landscape ,so as to make it my own? If so, where did I sleep? how did I enter that magical terrain how did I know its depth like I know the flat of my open hand? These are the mountains of my dreams rising in sheltered copses consorting with a thousand faltering voices in unison to out-sing even the sea.