Somewhere between the fragility of the flowers and the endurance of the mountain, we stand. Our short and simple lives but a brief and passing moment in picture that lays before me on this crisp and frosty morning, here in the middle of summer. Silent and cold and still as the sunlight inches down the mountain, across the open silver tipped field.
The ground is grey and crunchy beneath my feet. Lead ropes for the horses picket lines are frozen, stiff, cold on my fingers as I fumble to latch them onto the halters of the horses, the horses who look upon the frosty grass with an eager need, cold and shivering as they are, in want of breakfast yet finding little satisfaction in the frigid pasture.
The sun will soon reach this part of the mountain, freeing each blade of grass from the icy coating, spreading its warming golden glow upon the horses as they will stand like sundials, suddenly silent and still and relaxed, breathing, soaking up the cherished warmth.
The intensity of the mountains reminds us of her indifference to us, her stability despite us, her vast and mighty power over us. We are but passing observers, taking from her as we wish, claiming to own her or be of her.
She was here long before us. And long after us will she remain.