Where the dwarf willows swallow the trail
and the August rain paints the petals yellow,
I am climbing the ghost of a forgotten glacier
with the aphids clinging to my sleeves.

The shale breaks thinner than paper
and towers in jagged, broken glass,
the plateaus lying to my aching knees,
the erratic stones watching the eons pass.

Iron rivers of cloud that will not rust
pour over the Ogilvies in the fading light,
I wrap myself in wool against the wind
and the pikas go quiet before the night.

Balanced on boulders as large as cars,
feeling one shift a half inch under my weight,
then skiing down the scree in a shower of stone,
filling my boots with the dust of the deep earth,

stealing a step the mountain will never recover,
leaving a scar across the ancient moraine,
walking the road back down to where I began
where the dwarf willows are still waiting.