The climb was littered with waylayed treasuretroves. This nook, a heartsong. That chasm, a sigh. And if you put your ear to the wind's harping, you could hear the pitterpatter of forefathers and chanting and understand a bit. If you listened. The cliffs were secret keepers and I couldn't quite untangle their warblings. I wasn't supposed to. But I'll still hum their tune. Maybe they'll sing me in their cobwebbed coves, someday. I could sit 'round in the company of quaint legends: the smalls of backs and handholding and rockskipping and sunken moons. They were once my smooth palms and elastic sight. Now, they are the dust between my tickled pink toes. I am the whites of their shellshocked eyes, the ones rounded in the sleep. And those cliffs will outsing us all, and sing of us each. They let us be ghosts, grazing the wind's skin. If you listen, you'll hear them watching. If you listen, you'll hear your way home.
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