Those Who Climb Mountains

Those who climb mountains live forever unless they fall. They only drink icicle drip and chew thorns. Their soles are like thin mattresses that are well used. They breathe tinted air, unfiltered. Over and over again the hill is calling. No obstacle is too long. They are blind except by instinct. A raptor circles, catching a thermal. The climber would mount one and ride higher if he could. A rock falls from its place and like a seesaw lifts the hikers. Always there is imagination. Always there is a goal. Sky is no limitation. Her imagination is married to her distant goal. Rules are broken here: no time for fooling. They are reaching, reaching, Like shoppers wanting stacked goods on a high shelf. The eagle flies in the day; the climbers never stop. Mountaineers are like people, colorful as the Swiss. Their cheeks glow like tomatoes. Their toenails are steep. Finally the launch is ready and all who climb drift down again.