The Mountain That Waited for Me
By Christopher Sopher
Valley of the Sun Press – Poetry
November 22, 2025
Daisy stopped to pee
on a beat-up utility box,
and that pause —
that stupid little pause —
opened the whole damn desert.
From that one spot,
elevated just enough,
the mountains twenty miles out
stood taller than they ever do
when I’m rushing.
The sun hit only the far ridge,
not the closer one.
That alone made it look
like it was chosen.
Clouds hung low over it —
heavy, gray,
pressing down like a hand —
and the light broke through
in that perfect angle
that paints everything
blue-on-blue,
dark contour against darker contour,
like God sketched the thing
with a single stroke.
I didn’t reach for my phone.
Didn’t even think about it.
A camera would’ve ruined it,
flattened it,
lied about the color.
So I kept it in my eyes
long enough to burn it in,
retina-deep,
a picture meant only for me.
Daisy didn’t mind.
She pawed at the gravel,
sniffed the air,
waited like she knew
I needed that minute.
The wind kicked up.
A garbage-can lid hammered
against an empty barrel —
slow, hollow thumps
that echoed across the street.
Birds called to each other
in the blue of that hour.
The whole neighborhood was still.
I finished the loop,
came back to the mailboxes,
looked again —
and it was gone.
The light shifted.
The mountain changed.
The moment closed.
But I got it.
I saw it.
And it’s staying right here
where no camera can touch it.
