to remember. The slog of boot prints
through rocky paths, burrs and char
of summer burnings sticking
to your clothes, legs lichened
with scabbed over switch stripes.
They won’t let you forget:
years of catching your breath
when rain pushed you downward,
or slipping gravity of muddy banks,
branches snapping under your weight,
body of a broken songbird
pushed too early—pale wings flap.
You scoop it in your hands,
calm it with slow, steady rhythm.
The flutter doesn’t last to the summit.
You mark it under a pile of twigs.
This is the song of mountains,
true as open air. The world
will never know those blood stains.
Rain begins to wash them away.
