There it was David who spied to the south, remote,

And unmapped, a sunlit spire on Sawback, an overhang

Crooked like a talon. David named it the Finger.

That day we chanced on the skull and the splayed white ribs

Of a mountain goat underneath a cliff, caught tight

On a rock. Around were the silken feathers of kites.

And that was the first I knew that a goat could slip.