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37 Hiking Together It isn’t the exertion or the triumph. It isn’t the heavy breath set down on stone, shared rhythm of our walking, the curve of your ass I follow. It isn’t the sudden clearing and the butterflies, bronze light at the summit—though still I wonder what makes these gold bugs beautiful, what other insect would I hold past my senseless fear of insects? One clings to my shoulder now, paper wings like a folded note. It isn’t fragility, the briefness of a bloom, perfection of the day, or how long we watch them play in the light, soft bodies pressing over and over like pairs of hands. It isn’t your tongue in my mouth. Nor even this photograph, still at the base, your fear of heights hidden behind a blue hoodie, hip cocked— already queen of the mountain. ...

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