Windlash, whiplash leading down the folds

The turns, the mountain slope

Ending here:

A burned and blackened crescent trunk

Five feet tall in mossy ruin

A nicely built wooden deck

Stuck beneath a sandstone skull

Cavernous eyes, a hollow nose

Looming tilted and mouth empty,

I have felt this thin before

And am thinner than I know.

My stillness will last a handful of seconds,

My thinness a handful of years.

The skull already knows this

And cannot forget.

It stares down.

I turn around,

Walk back to face the wind.