She looks up at the mountain

fleeing into the fog. Constant

self winding down the trail—snake

skin shed on red rock. He takes the tent

and shreds it to pieces, he builds a fire

out of fresh mountain stream,

sweeps the mountain closet, the ceiling

festers with whispers, walls caked in guano.

There are no words for home, there is no

she and he, there is no word for mountain

until suddenly, like the sun burning up the fog,

the word comes blazing into view, difficult and small.