No water, no trail, fat mountain. Dried-up sunset, black bear scat, hidden cliff, saw-toothed scree, twisting boots. No moon. Circle back to the blackberry bush, thorns in the flesh, salty prick of blood, fruit already gone. Words take moisture. Nothing to savor but the raw flat paste of postponed death that passes between us in the form of one last, even-the-end-is-edible, woody pulp, slow-in-the-throat zucchini.