Cadence

Reza Shirazi

The ascent is almost musical;
the slow switchback trudge,
air singing green,
ferns crowding around the feet of firs,
Darrell's tin cup clanking like a tone-deaf cymbal.

We rise to snowline,
field of white silence
interrupted by patches of green and gray,
boots crunching fresh snow.

On the peak
we drop our heavy bags;
my pulse throbs.
A chorus of hills
gradually descends to the crimson horizon.
Only the sound of our breath
clouds the limitless hum.

 

 

 

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