In the dark my dog and I set off to climb the trail,
crawling beneath trees,
drinking from streams—
up the switch backs hugging
the hillsides with only
our night vision and senses
to guide us

At the pass, the wind came rushing
in to tickle our sides—
and if the sky could vomit it did,
with chunks of ice turning to shards,
so hard we had to find shelter
and cover our heads
beneath a tree

It gushed and cracked and coated
everything and then stopped,
and we carried on

without another soul in sight

that feeling of the wild,
of deep isolation,
of being removed

and connected
at the same time.

I became aware of my ears
as they shriveled,
and fell off.

And then the same,
of my arms
and hands

until all I was
was raw nerve,

sense memory:

the lizard brain,

a gland
the size
of my thumb

controlling
the tower.

Categories: poetry, writing

Tags: Cougar Mountain, hiking, humor, lizard brain, pacific northwest, poem, poetry, sense memory, William Pearse writer