arriving near the basin
of the cirque’s bowl
at dawn
peaks and spires
and massive juts
of jagged black rock
the stillness of snow
gushing all around
as if the lower jaw
of a sea dragon
just broke
the surface
the froth seething
among those pointed peaks
even so—
at 13,000 feet
in the middle
of a snow couloir
punctuated
by the crunch
of ice axe
crampon
and trochaic
breath
a lady bug—
a lady bug
a little soul
poised on prismatic ice
before a tarsal claw
clamped another crystal
and another
as if waiting
for a thermal updraft
to parachute
into the vault
above