My son and I climbed a broad, barren mountain
in Norway. We didn't know the language,
but on the mountain there's only
the language of the mountain.
The path was faint and narrow, and sometimes
it lost us, and we had to find our way.
All along there were little berries, blueberries
but wilder, more tart, like Montana's huckleberries,
the mountain's open handed gift for us that we ate
as we followed or made our way.
There was wind, and rain, and sun.
Going up or coming down, confidently on the path
or puzzling over our rough little map,
wherever we were on that mountain of God
it held us, and we had each other, and the mountain,
and the little sweet berries.
The berries were small and low to the ground,
and easy to miss.