Such round sounds on the mountaintop, drifting sighs on snow and the crooked outcrops— Oh Does it reach you? That warm breath cooling on the wind? She tickles the pines, dropping needles as she winds, wilds whistling below. Low to high, rise and fall. Heartbreak passes where the trees don’t grow. And with the timberline below, I shiver—enamored with the alpine rhyme of Marcela’s mountain in the snow.