There’s no easy uplift; gravity pulls hard on me. I try to rise, can’t get free of the ground; these ridges tug at my knees, my ankles. The air, which should be thinner, thickens, as if my breath came through a straw, from deep within a cave. It is all work, this. My body is the stone of Sisyphus, as I push myself up, and up. The one thing I’ll do is what I know how to do, to NOT STOP. At the top, finally, muscles knotting along my ribs, sternum; now I follow the trail widdershins, as if unwinding myself, unwinding these years and the mountain, until I pass a point I’ve marked for my return leg, elevation receding like a tide, its whirlpool trail carrying the stone of my body down, and down.