Bringing Mae Flowers

The dragon’s breath was thick and cold,

Echoing in the crags of its rocky lair

With the sound of cowbells ringing somewhere far below.

And a path so narrow and steep,

It would be missed if not for the warning signs marking its way.

Maybe it was a good thing we couldn’t see beyond the next turn.

No fear of the height that the mists obscured.

Each step a deliberate act, 

Carefully placed on the unsteady path,

On a trail so steep there was no turning back

On the descent from Pilatus.