The Valley

Small hands grasp at fraying rope. Tiny cries tumble through frigid air. I reach out for the child dropping down the cliffside. She screams. I watch. She crashes. I sob. I think to run. She is gone, and the thought of her crumpled body is too much to bear. The cold wind whispers to me and robs me of doubt. Go, it insists. Fate follows down the mountain trail.

The moon, ambivalent. Mockery and encouragement are for me alone to find. I take my descent through darkened trees, whiplashed by foliage. I know what I've seen. What I believe to be true. The wind cares little for my inconsistency.

My splitting shoes skid on the rock face as it bleeds into browning grass. A contorted figure shudders amidst the wilting wildflowers. The breeze moves softly, arrogant in its perceptiveness, and pushes me toward the jutting angles.

Bloodshot eyes flash open at my arrival. The little girl gasps with stolen life, and tugs at my dress with a stained yet unbroken hand. I lean down, and as our cheekbones graze together in the moonlight, she whispers into my frozen ear. Silently, I think her to be a fool. Breathlessly, she implies that I am one.

I lift her body into my arms and imagine myself a mother carrying her young to bed. Icy earth crunches beneath my weighted feet. The moon shrinks behind a slender, viscous cloud, reluctant in its illumination. Mountains guard us on each side, urging me to walk with purpose. The child rests her head upon my shaking breast and watches me closely, blind faith behind her drooping eyelids.

The wind ceases, and spares us a moment free from its knowing.