The Dry Descent (redux)

He hears a cry—the lamentation of a dying man.

He turns, strains, to see.

Who? No one.

He staggers on scree and falls heavy on his back; his poles useless after two thousand miles.

The sky is a terminal blue.

The cry of a loon, disparate and distant, rises from the lake below.

His eyes fix on a turkey vulture above, gliding lazy, on a current of air.

His tongue cramps. His eyes rack out of focus.

Every dehydrated move turns to a paralyzed pose.

He thinks it’s doubtful someone will hike through before morning.

He waits unblinking.

Unmoved.

“I cannot just swallow salt. Salt is heavier than a hundred bags of shame.”
— Edwidge Danticat / Krik Krak