Go up'n roast on a glacier,
Make a trip of it, Monsieur—
I'll personally see your bags will be waiting,
the kindling's got, mosquitoes smashed,
and site taken.
Go at the right time
and can keep humans
far away enough
as to look like ants.
Rising sun nips the tops
and chills expressed out of the basin
like a sorta sigh.
What at home's only closing up shop,
wiping counters, resetting for action
sweeping between aisles—
up here's watching coals die and sun-up,
the whole scene subside then set in.
Dynamic night stretching miles.
Then glorious Day
and its weight on painstaken paths,
all worthwhile.