Traveling the Eastern Sierra–a Haibun

dVerse Meeting the Bar host, Bjorn, asks us to write a Haibun–a blend of prose and Haiku.

Traveling the Eastern Sierra a Haibun Several times a year, I drive the 500 plus miles from Northern Nevada to Southern California snaking along the eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Every time, varying with the season of the year, vistas of delight surprise me, seduce my muse. Late winter, as I drove over Mammoth Lake pass:

I crest the summit—

mountains peaks span the view:

layers of meringue.




Throughout the year, Mt. Whitney oversees the halfway mark in my journey. Early May, this year, I arrived at sundown as the sun slipped behind her snowy crown. Clouds broke the light into distinct rays—as someone one said to me: “Like God in the movies.”

Her heights remind me

how utterly small I am,

how great Creation.

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In spring, wildflowers of all colors abound on either side of the road. The lakes dotting the route fill up, if winter has been kind. Rivers flow over rocks, around boulders. Ducks and geese bob on Little Lake—a sheet of emerald in the midst of bright red lava mounds.

I drive by quickly,

ignoring the urge to stop—

a woman, alone.




In summertime, mirages float across the steaming highway. Hawks and eagles circle lazily above, searching for rodents, snakes or road-kill. The desert regions expand in all directions once you hit the Mojave.

Joshua trees stretch

their crooked arms heavenward,

begging for relief.

Photo: desertusa

Photo: desertusa


In autumn the array of colors stuns me—brilliant oranges complement the turquoise blue of Lake Topaz. Flaming yellow aspens creep up crevasses into the mountain gorges.

Water smooth as silk,

mirror-like reflections, clouds

float on her surface.




Four Seasons - Longbridge Road

Image by joiseyshowaa via Flickr

Submitted to Poetry Potluck:  This week’s theme is Reflections, Interpretations and Musings


Purple petals dance
with solemn passion,
swirl in a breeze
filled with promise.

Sacred fireflies
shine in the wild night,
reach into the doleful void
to dazzle.

A dead leaf swirls in
the center of a whirling
torrent, disappears
down the storm drain.

Earth convulses while
blizzards howl,
morphs in an empty afternoon
beneath hoary skies .

Sursum corda.

The word Sacrament comes from the Latin, to make holy. A sacrament is considered to be an outward sign of grace. Sursum corda is Latin for lift up your heart.