Upon scaling front-country hills

I register depth
when I see distance,
but no profundity floats
between my eyes
and the sun-burnt valley.

My throat is loose
and my veins drum
like an epileptic fishnet
as they entangle thoughts--

fluid bends light
and even when clear,
contains inert
taste,

but each step
heats flesh
and constricts the net
until thoughts suffocate
in its embrace.

At the summit
the back country peaks howl;
the net seizes
and silence rises.

For a moment
the hills distill me.