If you ask the condor what she knows of god,
With a sweep of her dark wing, she might take you to Poincenot’s peak,
Bid you gaze upon his weathered face and the scree slopes who worship him,
Talus congregation crumbling down to the river choir that needs no hymnal.
Not to speak of the glacial lakes’ spindrift dervishes, silently composing their prayers,
Or the reverent swaying of the Magellanic forests, whose branches bless you with their holy water.
You see, the mountain’s paths are sacred texts
That lead you to the heart of the divine.