Sun in the valley lounged on our faces. A steep but short upto climb, light boots, light gloves. light glovesNo bouillon packed for delirium. The trail oozes with mud light gloves merged with a trickle like spittle from some mountain’s ice chin. Plop of the drip as we climb. How far? Snow and wind gouge our features. Straight up like dall sheep with no hooves and no horns. Mountains careen upwards. No beacon for trails to the valley. Around us white cadavers of rocks. A scent of sour in my mouth. We trek horizontal, a narrow iced ledge. Looking down creates vertigo, hastens our end. I a beast on all fours that can’t feel its hands or its haunches Will you leave the black and blue shins of our marriage behind? My world is the back of your legs shuffling, your turnings towards me, your mutterings lost in the din.