Standing on a ledge overlooking the silty shore of Lago del Pato, watching the rippled surface as ghostly wind shadows race across its surface gusting into my face ruffling my hair,

trying to shake me from my attention,

looking to its opposite shore at the bright primary palette of green, yellow, orange, and red quilted lenga forest,

that turns up into the maroon skirts of topless mountains,

following the line to the aquamarine fractured ice of a glacier receding into the cut that it has carved for itself,

my eyes walking up the jagged edges to snowy shoulders and long icy runs, to the sheer face of Fitz Roy too steep to hold snow,

a monolithic stake driven up from underneath the ground breaking through the skin of the earth towards space,

the sheer walls of Fitz Roy topped with a wig of a dark grey cloud that it refuses to surrender to the gusting winds,

that looks down in satisfaction to all that I take a moment to see.