Mountaintop Poetry

It was written in the trees and I saw it the first time when the sun was coming up and there was a gentle breeze. The morning of my first hunt for deer; I was sixteen. Near the top of Poison Hollow some deer tracks had been seen. I started out to follow them not knowing where they led. I thought that I might find a deer but found a poem instead. Quaking Aspens make a fine canvas; white and smooth is the bark. A thin cut hardly shows at first but over time turns dark. Barely visible when first made if done correctly; just keep low pressure with a thin blade and not more than a fourth-inch deep. Years later your words appear in black upon the white tree trunk and I found the poem there in that little grove of 'quakies'. A beautiful poem it was, three verses written on three trees standing side by side. The author even signed his name and the year: eighteen eighty-nine! How I wish I had taken a camera with me that time! In my twilight years I no longer recall his name nor the contents of the poem except that the meter and the rhyme were perfect and I felt uplifted after reading it. I'd love to find it, but don't see how, those trees would be long gone by now; they were already old at the time. Now in the mountains, when I hike, I carry a magazine, water bottle, notebook, pen and several other things. If you see Mr. H. G. Wells, please tell him I would like to borrow his time machine!