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.