KB
I had a dream last night that a star fell from the sky. It extinguished itself against the mountain but the mountain didn’t even notice. The mountain was eleven miles high and ninety miles wide. Made of granite. The mountain could see in every direction, toward the sea, and across the wide lands to the sea in the other direction, and knew it would last forever.
The mountain watched the sky. It knew the patterns of the stars. Clouds condensed frost across its face that reached from its flanks to its foothills. A momentary white flash of winter was like the rhythm of breath to the mountain. The water bathed the mountain, bumbled clear, followed the mountain’s features, traced the mountain’s outline. In the sweat that ran in rivulets were flecks of stone. Seeds and bits of earth.
The night sky and the sun were a pulse for the mountain. Its deepest roots were still warmed by the heat of eons lost; the heat of its birth. Arounds these roots the mountain revolved, encircled by the horizon, watching the wobble of the skies, the precession of the heavens.
In the morning I woke but mountain was ever awake. I made some coffee and headed out to wait at its feet and write this letter to you.
EJB