The shadow mountain was ringed with arrows of light, as if heaven's archers sat upon the graphite clouds. It's ragged feet, usually a sullen grey, bore the dance of gold with the good humour of a vampire. In the early light, amid the rising vapour, they knew the calling hour had come. This is what they had trained for, this was their destiny.
The mountain is a bold statement of the slowness of time, of the reality of the ever-present moment, in world of ticking human-clocks.
Upon the mountain's rising ground, ever upward into sunny rays, there is a feeling of peace as foot meets earthy path.
The mountain has absorbed the essence of my soul and returns it so purified upon our reunions.
The mountain, clothed creation's evergreen, is capped white in the rarified wintry air.
When the melt comes to the mountains, it is the evergreens who show the season change first. Their white-winter coats are gaily swapped for deepest green and the ground-snow remains as glacial rivers for a time. A few more weeks and there will be rocks showing from the white, then the earth below. This is the time when the streams run full, when their life is infused with fresh water, pure and clean. Together with the birdsong, their watery percussion is the music of nature.