Just past a long stretch of loose stones I met a man and his
mountain bike.

"You ride over that?" I asked, pointing to a jumble of stones.
"It's the big rocks that are dangerous. I came up against one
and fell backwards
                     and over."

Hills rise, dip, rising again to cries, calls, squeals, booms, and
winnows in the air, but also to words on a page, memories,
expectations, the unspoken desires and histories of other beings
where it's far too turn back.

The pioneers crossed one mountain range after another.
I'm
still climbing to where their dreams settled long ago.