A fractal testament to forces old and ever-changing,
an unbroken line that shears the sky, challenging
with its own pristine patterns
the clouds that skud beneath its peaks
Northwards we fly, chased
by the sun and traced
by curving ribbons.
The slow routes of the landbound,
warped and bent by geography.
The brighter ribbons, cross-wise
ice-cold snow melt bringing life.
Down beneath, the shadows twist and scatter,
each slope offering up its own reflection.
There is a certain chaos in this changeless vista,
except where warring scrub
brings order to the sere, brown dirt.
Eastwards, the mountains
now begin to shed their cloaks of ice,
the inevitability of latitude,
freeing them to spring,
and summer's blooming.
There will be flowers of pink and yellow
amidst the petroglyphs,
in a silence only shattered
by the voice and bells of donkeys.
Suddenly, all is changed, inverted,
a second coastline forms
above the dark waters,
a paler ocean than the first.
We dive towards the surface.
Despite the mystery of the cloudscape,
the hidden ground holds no surprises.
The mountains are a constant presence yet;
their roots await me.
I will trace their slopes,
ascend their peaks,
and touch the sky again.