On Mercedario at 21,000'

On Mercedario at 21,000'

The birds do not sing up here where the cold
rolls drifts of confidence into frozen
moments of indecision. Here the black-
suited crows tighten their feathered belts
like silent pallbearers, waiting to lift
bits flesh up from the dead bodies before
the chill makes the meat immortal. Here they
crowd together, measuring the distance
between our energy and exhaustion
while we struggle to puncture the white horizon.

I watch their hunkered huddle, wondering
if they've been fed since the last Incan offering
ascended these slopes centuries ago.