Gary Snyder: "Source"

To be in
to the land
where croppt-out rock
can hardly see
the swiftly passing trees

Manzanita clans
cluster up and fan out their soils
in streaks and sweeps
with birds and woodrats underneath

And clay swale keeps wet,
free of trees, the bunch-grass
like no Spaniard ever came

I hear no news

Cloud finger dragons dance and 
tremble down the ridge
and spit and spiral snow then pull in
quivering, on the sawtooth
spine

Clears up, and all the stars,
the tree leaves catch
some extra tiny source
all the wide night

Up here
out back
drink deep
that black light

From Turtle Island, 1974