If the baleful sky had a curious eye

his would seem a small movement,

an ache of progress only

but from the ground up the universe expands

 

He has been impervious to rain

but stitching begins to fail at this exposure

at this height and the rain is his escort

though he is unaware of ingress.

 

Other bodies of water trill in minor caves turning

inside out with  their scouring, dividing, divining,

as he advances upward etched like a sphinx

worshipful of nature's challenge.

 

Great slumbering slabs spit back the wet spoil

on their silver skin, dredging.  Up on the ridge

he sideswipes obstacles where histories bask

dawns are spawned, centuries bled dry of change.

 

His watch tells him of a good average.

He seeks out a refuge,  rests under an overhang

and sees where a giant hole rents the cloud

where the sun gives birth to light in the vast

cloudy solitude on the scarified bowl.