Up the path,
Not knowing what
I would find up there.
Passing the foothills, then
Stopping to catch my breath,
I gazed upon the mountain itself:
Barren, rugged wind-swept granite.
The pinnacle was somewhere beyond,
Hidden by a crown of feathery rain-clouds.
The path weaved back and forth, mostly climbing,
Occasionally entering fissures, once passing by a cave.
The higher I climbed, the less worn became the pathway,
Eventually looking like something only a mountain goat would climb.
Passing through the clouds, I could seldom anymore see what was below.
It got colder. I struggled to catch my breath; I could see I was near the summit.
I didn’t have a flag to plant, so I just sat on a rock, listened to the wind and my heartbeat.