on the ridgeline. But maybe
I’m being dramatic. 
    
    I do know that at the very
    least, mist on the ridgeline
    sits me criss-cross-applesauce
    in my limbic system
            and its perpetual
            pitch, yaw, and roll.

But let me say it anyway.

It all starts with mist
on the ridgeline
and ends with me
        threshed
        hulled
        pitted
                by the creek.