The storm has come and gone. It has taken with it the last of the leaves clinging frail and tired to what they once had, their green and lush glory of yesterday. Leaving the mountain stark, naked, vast, vulnerable.
She flushes her hillsides with snow and frigid temperatures, sending the wildlife and those not so wild down to lower elevations, to warmer weather, to a maybe easier life than the harsh winter of the mountains.
We awake in the Little Cabin, our breath as thick and heavy as fog over the Reservoir. We put on our wool caps and down jackets as we await the dark metal of the old cook stove to heat up, the water for our coffee to boil.
Outside the window of this little space it is big and wide and exposed and somehow open. To what we do not always know. We have little control over the mountain, and strive only to find the power to manipulate our own lives for the better.
We long for that winter, that smooth and soothing cover over our world that embraces us and our mountain and our world.