Legends say
that lovers fought
and turned to stone
and wept, still weep.
You photograph
a tree,

and saints
flee the canyon
of gods
in their grief.
We wander
on a cliff side.

The sky
flicks condors
to and fro.
You breathe
the way
an ocean
breathes.

Our hands
in wool,
the snow
in feet,
the mountains
wake and stare
at us.

Cold light spreads
down colder peaks.
You photograph
a tree like a bird
catches a fish.