I’m straddling Maroon Peak’s tip, gazing down
into emerald valley, admiring
your running that frosted chiseled path, grown
round with firs and aspens, high sun firing
their calm lake. Knowing mudstone endangers
climbers, I’ve mutely flown here as no one
watched, natural athlete touting stranger
skills than even Hercules—goal of fun
in celebrating your striding through chilled
air, your breath brief smoke signals of joy creased
with pain, as only runners know. What thrills
me now: Seeing you finish, slender ease
of your pace, soft face turning in wonder,
hearing my clapping, thinking it’s thunder.
Roger Armbrust
September 21,
2013
