Go to the mountain. Friday 55 non-fiction

Breathless, each stair,


the vision’s so clear.



Painful ascent wracks ribcage,

setting pace, atmosphere engaged.



Alpine carpets off-trail:

buckwheat, sage inhaled.



Waterfalls’ silver-orb strands

streaming through hands.



Ripple-mirrored lakes'

moonlit fish-wakes.

River’s rush

conjures sleeper’s hush.



Reawaken with a gusting slap

against the tent-fly flap.



Come to the mountain for air,

to breathe, to care.