Gazing

The mountains are black bearssleeping on their sides, snow dusting their fur.In the summer as children we sat in the front yardlong past dark and watched Brush Mountain crackleorange with fire. No sounds but the crickets.Gleefully we pointed out airplanes flashingthrough the stars. One night we stayed out lateto wait for Telestar, the only white spotmoving in the sea of stars. The grass was cool.We lay on our backs looking up like the ancients.