Scant clouds, the smell of spruce and water:
Today we are climbing the mountain.
People of the coast, our hands are clever,
our eyes are made for distance.
But today the mountain is teaching us
about legs, about lungs. All day,
in the eloquence of its silence
it is speaking to our hearts about wings.
In the evening we rest —
not speaking, but not alone.
Tomorrow, the return
to tamer ground, to familiar paths;
but now we know beyond forgetting:
on the right mountaintop,
anyone can be transfigured.