The view from Steptoe Butte spans three western states
Over swaying golden wheat fields melding into deep green forests
To a murky mountain skyline at the very edge of nowhere.
Panoramic views from great heights always blur the edges
and you can't count the petals on a tiny yellow flower
Growing in the crevice of a rock
or track the wee cloven prints of a spotted fawn in the mud behind the barn.
So, I never read Moby Dick.
After "Bartleby the Scrivner", Melville bored me
and I couldn't spare the time to climb that hill.
The book sat by my chair unread for days,
serving as a coaster.
Finally, I faked it with Cliff notes
And Gregory Peck in black and white going down forever tethered to that whale.
Symbolism not lost on even me.
I spent the days not reading Moby Dick
Talking with my grandmother
To clarify that landscape, concentrating on her view
From the crest of many decades.
The edges blurred a little, now and then,
But we focused on the center.
Later, I wrote a poem
about her busy, gnarled hands.

Virginia Walters is a retired educator and free-lance writers living in Kenai, Alaska. She has been previously published in various local publications as well as little magazines. She currently writes a regular column for the local newspaper.