You talk of peaks as if they were reward and name all those you've climbed and some you'd like -- Hesperus, tomorrow. You mention gear and weather, how high, how thin the air. Of course I'll watch your house, imagine you rising with short stride, essence of blue in your eyes. You'll leave at dawn, come home at dusk, days later. Your house is low and common, cut wood stacked wide and long for the fire of your return. I watch, imagine smoke rise through a thin chimney, light flicker from a window. Back again, you'll tell your story, again I'll question why then lean home thinking I must change my life.