I sit in the early morning darkness, with only the glow of the wood stove and the stars, awaiting the inevitable sliver of moon to rise in the south east; waiting on nature, so predictable, to shine as you know she will.
And she does, like the birds returning the same time every year. The clockwork of the seasons, regardless of what man does around her. And yet, the exhausted birds are grateful for the full feeders awaiting them at our cabin as they complete their journey only to find the mountain still covered in white.
We have been recording such dates for many years now. We can not leave it to memory, which will certainly fail us, nor to the wisdom of old-timers. No others have lived here before us. There is no one to turn to for answers but the mountain herself.
The moon did rise, that same little sliver I watched rise just before the sun less than a month ago, and for so many months, years, before this. And now, a faint glow of pale indigo light radiates across the sky as the sun prepares to follow.