Atop again—
still.
Facing West—
cuddled by the evening breeze.
Commanding
the heart-stopping Pennine extent.
The sun through high, thin, opalescent clouds,
setting in a finally familiar sky.
No thoughts, no more struggle.
No sound,
save that of the air in and out of the nostrils
and the barely audible roar
of a tractor up the slope a mile away.
One more minute
breathing in deeply,
then some buried childhood prayer
dug out prior to running back.