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At the pinnacle a black dog awaits

In a cold wind, it lies on the snowy ground looking down

and trusts each person reaching the top to stroke it

to take group photos on the slender summit

But it doesn't say for whom it waits at 6,100 meters

Perhaps it masks a pair of wings

and in the long dark nights speaks with mountain spirits

Maybe its beloved brews tea below

Another thought is that it was a climber in a prior life

living here undyingly after falling into a gorge

repeatedly ascending, its eternal task

So its bright black gaze seems somewhat sad

but it doesn't rebuff a lengthy look into my eyes

Thick fur, cold and damp

allowing my paws a tight grasp

At 5,000 meters, looking back it seems a black pebble

I look upwards and bow deeply

then place a thick piece of pig gut on the stones

In a blink crows swoop down and snatch it up