I step out of the comfort of my cabin and into the cold night air, into the soft radiance of the moon subtly opening up the world in front of me. I pause for a moment and allow my eyes to adjust. There is nothing else I came here for, but to stand, and stare and be. I take a deep breath. The smell of wood smoke wafts through the crisp, thin air. The sound of the river hums smoothly in the distance. Above me is the waxing moon, and stars, infinite stars, more than I will ever comprehend. Before me is our mountain, the outlined silhouette of the high ridges I know almost as familiar as the face of my child. The patchwork quilt of snow and melted ground, exposed in a crazy patterns; now soft and dark and grey, now brightly illuminated from the silver light of the moon. I can see a long way away, over the ridge, to the mountains in the distance, and farther still. In this faint and fine light, I think I see past and beyond, far, far away. Under the same moon, under the same stars. I could be anywhere.
Posted by: highmountainmuse | October 31, 2009
Under the light of the waxing moon