The high lakes are frozen clear, distorting the reflection of the mountain. 

Old men with trekking poles stab at hiking trails. All with Homeric hunger pangs, having lost their way back to Paris. 

They’re drawn to recite soliloquies to the unmoving cold, to agitated towhees, and dark-eyed juncos. 

Each, a glossy eyed Dionysus, drunk on the stinging scent of pine, instilled with a longing to name the mountain Helen. 

The mountain? She’s only shy in the rain. They immortalize her with iPhones, wearing a winter skirt. It’s a false offering, but the only real flower in the December forest is an occasional thistle.  

Once back upon studded tires and snow chains, their grey hair halos sit like laurel crowns. They profess Socratic love for Helen. But the mountain holds no dialogue, only a mimetic whisper to adorn their computer screens.