Sonnet

How does the mountain speak, through tent of night
An orator immobile with weight to bear
The age-old home for each thief's plight
Where fear and mice breed in the devil's lair.
He casts a shadow not, in spite of mass
Though his stone face lacks eyes, he cries in vain
His hooting caves, they swirl with sound, alas
No human ear can hear his vast refrain.
This peak is owned by trees, in state they lie
His heart was forged by time, a troubled core
Dark clouds churn 'round his brow and quickly fly
His runoff tears are kind, and nothing more.
The stars appear to beat like hearts alive
The peak yields to the ochre moon, and dies.