This whole mountain will be eroded in four or five weeks.
We fold up our camp kits and roll out our bags. A cold wind
from the North is swirling our way, bitter rushing water
pulls everything up, the water washes it away. Soon Earth
will be a barren planet. We move further up the mountain,
staying alove as long as possible. Each night on an old
cassette tape deck we sit around the fire and record as much
as each of us remembers. Anything. Juicy fruit gum jingles,
the names of all our relatives, what we used to eat for
breakfast. There is (as yet) no panic or sense of loss. At
night we recall details, by day we travel hard, always up,
into the wind, swirling stronger and stronger.
Bonnie Schulman