9,000 feet

We trek the steep rim
Past shrunken orange
Strip of dead fox, still bright,

Luring flies.
The lake is long, a loose wound
In the mountain’s chest.

Stripped, we douse
Hike-hot skin
In ancient black,

The dark mud plush
To first careful steps,
Sting of sinking in—

Then we float out
Over the secret floor
Where arctic deeps purl beneath

And vast forces forged
A hidden foundation
Millions of years before.

My white hand melts into murk,
Urging swarms of froth
To rise and hiss

On the surface.
My Iron Age limbs scull
The tingling cold.

Clouds bruise the high pines.
A hawk rounds back alone,
Persistent in Spartan circles.

Original appearance in Smartish Pace.