Halfway to the ridge, feet curl
From the back's weight,
eyes see only a stone's throw ahead,
Head thinks backwards.

The ovenbirds at three thousand feet
Sing all the time,
And the forest is beautifully darker.
The rocks glitter with a crust and shine inside.

They are not found above the treeline
Or at the base where
It is ordinary quarried stone,
And easily described.

When you sit to rest,
The mountain ants sting more sharply,
And new types of flowers
(The rare blue ones) grow in the bark of trees.

You feared the climb straight up.
The hands raw on the hackberry knobs.
...