THE ROOTS OF THE AIR

The liquid sea appears here and there before me, surrounded by islands of ice in motion that appear to cradle hundreds of seagulls, all rejoicing like us in this day of sunshine and the bluest of blue skies.

Little white waves, stacks of rocks buried in snow, cast out by the volcano who knows how many centuries ago, little lakes frozen here and there, merry little streams with icy banks, black and white hills, slippery frozen rocks on which my crampons rest insecurely, tied tightly to my boots, helmet on my head in case of collapse.