Gaining
the mountain's shadowy crest, I slip my sweater back on.
Humming in the valley as jackhammers bounce and small
planes
just out of sight beat the chilly air.
Around a bend comes a couple
exchanging stories
and
colonized breaths. Is a hyoid
bone out
of place
in the wild?
I can almost hear trees whispering
through their roots, and birds
tweeting brief dispatches, while stones giggle at childish
pranks:
Old
Stony Face
is not
only your
name, but
mine.