Mountains in the teacup

trace my hand along the delicate serrated line where the ridge meets sky, all white above and below the brown demarcation line where mountain ends and sky begins, a litany of snow falling  along the narrow path, the minuscule climbers, too small for naked eye, trudging through the storm, coats clutched to chests, never for a moment aware that the scene, the ridge, the world entire is just a teacup in the palm of the hand, held aloft, so fragile, prone to all sorts of risings and fallings, bone China, fragile to the touch

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