The trail ends. Gravel rut peters out at ridge's feet. Wind gnaws at cigarette, blowing life into cherry-red tip. Finish it, suck away, let breath eat flame. Grind it into dust and dirt. Kill the myth.
Now breathe in the cold-dark; ice-eddies cutting nostrils and cracking lips. Peer up the mountain, between the pines, into the black. Witness the dim whirl of man-fire-man-fire, and maybe reflections of flame on something else. The rituals dance just out of reach.
Climb, mount that first ledge. Damp stone glimmers in places; reflects moon and star. Below and blind to the fire, hugging the dead rock, climbing.
Hit the table-rock set high into the mountain, scrub and pine whipping in early dawn wind.
Nestled in the trees, open to the sky. Light the last cig, inhale and think.
No fire, but tinder and kindling. Build an ember-home, gather rocks and twigs and branches. Knife and knee do the trick.
Lay cigarette into needle-house.
Behold a white-clad woman, far above and still ascending. The wind dies. The flame catches.
She rises, even now to the summit. And on and on, she will haunt you forever.
Now breathe in the cold-dark; ice-eddies cutting nostrils and cracking lips. Peer up the mountain, between the pines, into the black. Witness the dim whirl of man-fire-man-fire, and maybe reflections of flame on something else. The rituals dance just out of reach.
Climb, mount that first ledge. Damp stone glimmers in places; reflects moon and star. Below and blind to the fire, hugging the dead rock, climbing.
Hit the table-rock set high into the mountain, scrub and pine whipping in early dawn wind.
Nestled in the trees, open to the sky. Light the last cig, inhale and think.
No fire, but tinder and kindling. Build an ember-home, gather rocks and twigs and branches. Knife and knee do the trick.
Lay cigarette into needle-house.
Behold a white-clad woman, far above and still ascending. The wind dies. The flame catches.
She rises, even now to the summit. And on and on, she will haunt you forever.
