in all sanguinity

Up the mountainside we climbed,

hand and foot, scrambling on all fours

across lichen-streaked rocks, the pikas

calling to us from their barren dens,

deep within the talus

 

It felt like moving through a cloud:

the sky a great cottony expanse,

the trees and grass and blueberry shrubs

dripping wet with fog,

the sun all but invisible under

a billowing sheet of white

 

We reached the top, where

for a few moments, the sun broke free

and bathed us in light; and

a flock of jays materialized from the mist,

eating potato chips from our hands

 

I was reminded of a time

when we were boys, oblivious

to the world, strangers to

sadness, to self-doubt,

to crippling inertia, and

I thought to myself,

“Thank goodness we’ve grown up.”

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