Enough

High Sierra valley,
thin, cool air carrying
bird sounds, hints of juniper.
I look down into
sun and shadow,
down this glacial scar,
earth’s wound, an old cut
healed, changing slowly—
brave pines, scrubby and low,
growing up through splits
in rock, reaching up for
sunlight, rooting
down for water—
getting by on not much at all.
Not much, but enough.