Storm on the mountain

There was no moon. The clouds twisted in the sky, pale to dark-grey wisps dripping toward the earth like black dew off of midnight leaves. The last remnants of sunset hovered on the horizon, nearing brightness yet more dull, as if the rain reached through he brilliance to place its mark on the sun. The chin-high grasses whipped and whispered around us, our silent forms slowly rising, blending into the mountain.

We hiked at evening-time, wishing to become a part of the mountains ringing our valley for a change. Sitting atop the rocks at the trail’s crest, we wondered at the vastness of the city, breathing to the flickering lights and feeling somehow alone. We heard the city’s sounds and we were not a part of them; we had walked away, up into the mountain, giving ourselves to nature as the storm coalesced above our heads. There was something immense in our silent trust. We gave ourselves to the mountain to protect.

As we walked back down the darkening path I held my hands out at my sides, palms facing up.


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