Trigger Warning
At the top of the pass
the trail crosses a rockfall,
a slope of loose slate
as old as the mountain,
as deep as the valley below.
Out of the rocks
an arch has been stacked,
straddling the path.
The stones, tall enough
for a tall man, lean at the top
until gravity tips them together
in a curve as clean as the arc
of the earth.
The arch should not stand.
No mortar, no scaffold of sticks.
No tricks of buttress or blocking.
Only this surprising geometry
of stones balanced across the sky.
Not a slate out of place.
Picked from the rockpile
by a painstaking hand,
the chosen few remain,
stacked by shape
and grain and weight.
At the top of the world, a gate.