I spent most of the night flipping my pillow, desperately seeking a cool side. Anticipation is a lousy companion for sleep.
You come to me now in dream; in bird: Circling raptors, rapid flaps of a mountain sparrow wing. Movement and light … flash and whir.
The sky is fluid.
Club soda over ice.
An extinguished match.
Our cocktail of fog and smoke and mist.
We’ll call it a Grey Ghost.
On the rocks.
Stories are made with every step. At the belly of this beautiful beast we make our offering of tears and ash.
Mountain goats, pikas, ground squirrels and ptarmigans.
We’ll carry new stories home to weave into the old ones until there is just the one story.
Our boots have carried the day in all the ways that they can.
There is satisfaction in both hunger and exhaustion; in giving spirit back to the wind. We left pieces of all of us in that most sacred place.
A last walk with a friend.