He told me that when they saw visitors coming they'd lock up the lookout and go hide in the rocks. The bottom's black and the top's at maybe 35,000. I take the binoculars and look. All I can see is a bunch of gray stuff. When I go out to jog at 1730, the air feels damp and heavy.
Mountain bluebirds rush from tree to tree in small droves.
Farther down a rough-legged hawk calls and calls. I try to watch it, but must keep my eyes on this road. I climb the stairs, cold already. The wind has picked up and dries the sweat and dirt to my skin. I unlock the chain and push up the trapdoor.