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