Mount Ararat

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.  

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