The Old Man of the Mountain by W.S. Brewbaker Fell, after centuries. The hard forehead and squared nose. The chin. All of him. Crumbled. Created by gravity and wind and shattered by the same. His stone face an accident of erosion, nothing more. But clung to like a promise. For these are the things we do to survive: find wrinkles in the barks of oaks. Call branches arms. Frown at our own sagging chests and name them trunks. Refusing to level or admit. Shouting down the whisper that we, too, must then be accidents. Gyroscope Review 5!