Two hundred meters from the summit, on a knife-edge ridge,

the wind whirls around a rocky outcropping

catching him off-guard, shakes his balance—arms windmilling,

a mitten flies into the cold nothingness.

He jams his ice-axe into the crusted snow, regroups. 

He is on lead, cutting steps—the summit,

yet two hours, maybe more, away.

Cut, step, deep breath, another—cut, step, deep breath, another.

On the summit he takes off his remaining mitten,

smacks his hands together, hoping 

to warm the frozen hand before it is too late.

It is too late. His hand shatters—pieces of flesh

and bone and gristle and tendon explode into the void,

then fall and fall—and he hears the sound of one hand clapping.