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Beast of Kind
Good Lord, I'm letting it slip. I feel as though I'm wrestling a serpent, thrashing wildly, my hands on its slick torso threatening to loosen. I can't readjust, I can only maintain grip and hope that they won't let go. I have to lose myself in daily routine. I must, or else I'll let go. Silence -- the quietness of the day -- slides along the surface of this bubble of stress that has expanded around me. Realigning myself is turning out to be harder than I anticipated, because in order to regain my footing, I must immerse myself in that silent monotony. After a deep breath, I realize I'm not afraid or worried. I've gotten it back in the past. I'll rely on history.
10:18 a.m., ice shatters under the pressure as my pick digs in, cold spray dusting my face. I raise up and grip the handle. Canyon wind ballasts my body from the south, up through the gulley, and I cautiously release my right foot. Ca-chink. I look down and readjust my grip. The sight of the ground, 200 feet below, sends a ripple of sour adrenaline through my hands and neck, and I quickly focus on driving my hooked foot into the ice wall. My grip loosens, and I slip. A flash of white ice and white sky is all I see before I somehow regrip the handle of my ice pick.
Catching my breath, I stop to reel in a breathtaking view. I am alone. And it is beautiful.
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