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
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