Speed holds us to a curve at the edge of vertigo.
The plane banks steeply left, people lean over.
But the view, oh the view, from the left side
the cliff, a gros plan of avalanche paths
crags, promontories, horns, abysses, scarps
in sharp detail
so close.
Too close.
Snow will soften the blow, rocks will tear us apart.
With heart in throat I grab the hand
of the stranger next to me.
A quick look, a shaky smile
we won’t die alone.
Grey Sparrow Journal 