He follows the trail
crossing grey pink granite
glacier polished long ago,
now crumbling under boots.

Pretzel twisted trees
entwine, half alive and dead,
growing straight out of
the high Sierra rooftop,
winter wind scoured.

Springtime runoff rivulets,
tiny waterfalls
over mossy boulders,
snowfields still melting
in late April.

He smiles, glad he's
made the trip today.
Too much of life
spent trapped inside
a worried mind.

He steps to a ledge, looks down,
crows circle below.
The knees shiver a bit
but he stands his ground,
steadies himself, walks on.

Trail narrows,
traverses a steep *****,
granite overhang above.
He stops for a minute,
admires the view.

A shudder, and crack.
He looks up, sees
the tombstone grey slab
hurtling down.

No scream of protest,
no life flashing,
only an instant of surprise
before darkness,
blessed.