Wet slush on serrated mountain crest
glimmers like a pearlescent gemstone
untouched by even the brave ones-
sword-wavers, chest-beaters, ski-maniacs,
gemhounds and bloodhounds
and even father sun
has stayed his hand
to drag a finger through that heavenly
mirror-tile's topcoat
for its unmarked face, streakless
and unpocked by avalanche
reveals no disturbance.

They say these are the steepest mountains on earth,
and it would be hard to disagree while looking at them
their upper edge against the equally spotless sky
is a perfect, continuous line
and the slopes, appearing near-vertical
create the illusion
that this miles-long ridge could split hairs like a hand-sharpened razor-
like a colossal, snowy
bowie knife.