The marmot lies on gray rock,
a mass of skin and soft fur;
he rests,
soaks up sun.
He wears a blanket
of his own silvery-brown comfort,
glinting
in heavy afternoon light.
I follow the footpath
a narrow stripe
across miles of forests
and stark mountains.
My backpack and my steps
propel me down
through open, rocky land
with vast sapphire lakes.
The marmot extends
his sharp-fingered feet,
spreads himself over the boulder,
surrendering to the Earth.
I stop to watch
his display of absolute calm,
and his glossy black eyes
gaze at me.
He seems to wonder
if he should scamper down,
hide behind a far off rock.
But he has melded with his perch.
I stare at the marmot,
his brown face,
ears tucked inward,
his two protruding teeth.
He looks at my face
that shines with sweat
before narrowing his eyes
into a tranquil squint.
I continue walking
along the path
toward dark spikes of trees
in the valley ahead.
And the marmot rests,
splayed against warm rock,
steeping himself
in sunlight.
Later I lie
beneath a glimmering expanse
of stars and galaxies,
enshrouded in my sleeping bag.
I think of the marmot
who enjoys the sun
in his fur,
such simple peace.