The path back is never as obvious. You always wonder how you got where you did. The rocks seem higher, the faces slipperier, and the edges more jagged. Surely they didn’t hold my feet before? The silty rock, sivved to shards, feels like what I imagine walking on a wad of ash would be like. Finer than snow, not as sticky, yet the noise is similar, just more hushed, like you’re hearing it through a shell.
The sun is sinking and the moon hangs high, like a proud parent watching their child sing in a play. The moon the parent. The sun the child. And the observer – me.