It looks mighty high up there,
where you think you are standing.
Stating answers to questions I was about to ask,
with your voice dipping, dipping
lowering itself to me,
but not gently.

Not like a snowflake following gravity’s course,
But like an egg,
dropped
astonishingly close to my head.

You say you have professional shots –
Are you a sniper, I wonder –
done by professional people –
perhaps a killer for hire? –
And would I like them?

I would. But professional is a designation
That I am claiming too.
My jeans do not detract from my skill,
and nor does my furry hat, my sweat, my smile.

Your mountain is rubble, and I am not your maker,
but I would be careful where you stand
When comes the seismic shift.
I might be the avalanche. I might be the rumble.
I might have been at the bottom of the valley,
but now you are looking up
at me.

Photo credit: Brett Weinstein on Flickr

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