Met in the foothills,
already the valley rivers
memory.

Through that longest of
mountain trails before us
I can not guide you.

All the same
a way is made.

Treeline.
Alien boundary.
Dying stone
receiving sky burial.
We like foreign guests
do not speak,
bow our heads.

Waywards
learning
customs
without hands,
without eyes.

You can not guide me
because we are the map makers.
Knowing
new
the path as we walk it.

I can not guide you,
but I will beside you
reach the peak,
new eyes, new hands,
and when the moon shows
we will find our footsteps, together
down the mountain.