WEBVTT

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I better read a poem
about death here,

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it's called Escudilla Mountain.

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And the reason why I'm familiar
with this particular mountain,

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which is the third
highest peak in Arizona,

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is that I've been working with
others in the past five years

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to try to stop Forest
Service from logging it.

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And all of that doesn't
enter in the poem,

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but it provides the
reason why I happen

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to be familiar with
this particular mountain

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in the White Mountains.

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It's about people dying.

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Escudilla Mountain.

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The dead do not cry
out in their sleep.

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Instead, they lie there,
thinking of their lives.

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How they stood on curves, the
serial sun pouring over them.

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Holding their toys,
looking at others.

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And later, threw
water from pans,

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flashing the light from the
windows of their hairy bark

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cabins.

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And lying there, turning
things over, they change.

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The flesh drops off.

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A watery cheese.

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A light seeping
away into the soil.

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But what remains, grows harder.

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Colored teeth forming in geodes.

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Until the blue eggs
fade in their nests.

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Until at the last, in a final
struggle toward their friends,

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their voices go out.

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