Two days after an all-night rain,
                                              why I am in a hurry?

Two elderly women are clambering up the path. "A steep climb," I remark.
"Yes," one replies,"but my wife won't let me stop." Her smile is a map that
plots how far they've come.

Signs: Broken twigs, green on the forest's floor.
Leaves like bouquets that haven't yet left home.
The odd shape of stones who spoke their mind.

Where a table waits with an empty bench, I shout up to the Mountain God:

                               To reach the summit
                                    it's a long way