A Breath Upon the Ridge

The wind carried the smell of stone and dawn. I felt my joints yield, then tighten with true weight. My left arm was raised, holding the carved bird steady against the horizon. Slowly, I flexed my wrist. The small hawk shifted slightly upon my bracer, firm and balanced. The canyon stretched out endlessly below in golden light. I did not rush. I planted my boots firmly onto the mossy earth, breathing in the cold air, feeling the quiet pulse of life in every sinew.