Passage 14.

“Prudently, we make a campfire

in a circle near water, and rest

at this mountain.” At least in summer.

 

“You know, it’s zero,” and I’m fumbling

with Stabilicers on Camel’s Hump

to stop this from being a bummer.

 

“You’re not serious about climbing

in All-Stars!” Halfway up Camel’s Rump

Mad ice, steep even for a Hummer.

 

“Wear these, Generator, catch your brother.”

Charlotte’s fingers are blue ice pops.

Red hat, orange coat, like a Mummer.

 

We march, at least I do, on squeaky snow.

“Try not to wake Le Lion Couchant.

Without respect, there’s nothing dumber.”

 

Hikers strap on crampons and pass us.

Hand-over-hand, I cling to pine boughs.

François climbs to a different drummer.

 

He and the Generator scale troughs

of ice as the Lion awakens.

They turn a corner, each a dreamer.

 

Sonic booms, National Guard F-15s

drown out the whisper on the summit.

We crouch below, a lot glummer.

 

Skittering over icy rocks,

Orange Charlotte picks up momentum.

I bounce alone, my keester number.

 

“Someone skied this the last time we were here.

Ron Konowitz? One of the Cochrans?

A young snowboarder who’s a comer?”

 

O Tad-wak-be-dee-ee-so Wadso,

Rock of five hundred fifty million years,

Without your gleam, our lives are dimmer.

 

Day fades fast. The Lion sleeps tonight.

In the forest, the mighty forest

a campfire gives us its glimmer.