She commands attention
from the top of the Cascade in Yerevan,
the Greater Ararat and the Little Ararat.
The Holy Mountain,
an Armenian tells me,
where Noah landed the ark.
Snow-capped and sun-drenched,
she is, on an early autumn morning
and under a cloudless sky.
I am not alone here.
Mountain worshippers gather
on a long stone bench
or along the Cascade walls
staring at the mountain in silence,
in meditation,
perhaps even in prayer.
Are these people looking for salvation?
A wish granted?
An escape from a troublesome situation
or an unhappy life?
A flight from the stressors of work?
Or, like me, do they hunger to be awed by nature?
We, who have climbed
these five hundred steps,
who sit with hands in pockets in the chilly air,
with our necks wrapped in scarves,
our phones neatly tucked away in pockets,
we are a tribe,
though our longings,
our sufferings,
and our reasons for gazing
on this dormant volcano
may differ.