Low Winds

Pebbly scree slides and crabwalks me inside a dim dunk of fog. I should not have climbed, should have waited for the sky to clear its eyes but I was anxious to reach a height that day. I took the Arimathea way. I’m beat and disorientated, falling down while still upright, feeling a momentum sliding me over an unseen cliff face. I see only a vaporous fear swirling out of my open mouth. The chill hand of fate grips. Beyond my funk I hear someone behind me Sitting on the cold stones, boot heels wedged into the rocky scrabble, I wait to be rescued by a more clear-eyed self.