Here, in Appalachia, the mountains, old as time, coat the deepest blue of the evening sky with the soft brush of trees at their highest points. The valleys stretch this way and that, their bottoms hidden beneath swirling mists keep their secrets safe. Now, as winter ages, and the snow on the ground gathers, the tops of the trees in the endless forests have ceded their leaves to the rugged floor below, having provided the Mother Earth with a warm blanket of soft humus. Sunlight peeking over the mountains, in a last effort to keep the day alive, sends shafts of almost violet light through the crystals of snow that cling so tenaciously to the skeletal branches. They appear, these icy crystals, to be as diamonds and amethysts too precious to be so tenuous.
Thousands of feet above the rest of the earth, in the highest places, no wind stirs. The rustling all about is that of the forest’s residents foraging or turning in the depths of their hibernation. The crackling sounds all belong to icicles growing and refreezing under the weight of more gathered moisture. More jewels for the new day. The shadows lengthen now, as evening gathers, and night brushes the air with a new and deepened chill. Night is upon the mountains. Night will be upon us all soon enough.
I often wonder, when I venture here, if these are scenes that need another’s company… I wonder if the words one might exchange with a companion would dull the senses to the magic of it all, and if the destruction of such perfect silence enshrouded in magnificent solitude would take away nature’s full show. Words, thrust across a page, seem to shout, yet they still allow reflection without comment. How can such noisiness of thought be so quiet, so pensive, so dolefully sweet? What a beautiful world this is… Sitting and staring at it all, I am in awe… I just had to scream it out as silently as unspoken words would allow...
Thousands of feet above the rest of the earth, in the highest places, no wind stirs. The rustling all about is that of the forest’s residents foraging or turning in the depths of their hibernation. The crackling sounds all belong to icicles growing and refreezing under the weight of more gathered moisture. More jewels for the new day. The shadows lengthen now, as evening gathers, and night brushes the air with a new and deepened chill. Night is upon the mountains. Night will be upon us all soon enough.
I often wonder, when I venture here, if these are scenes that need another’s company… I wonder if the words one might exchange with a companion would dull the senses to the magic of it all, and if the destruction of such perfect silence enshrouded in magnificent solitude would take away nature’s full show. Words, thrust across a page, seem to shout, yet they still allow reflection without comment. How can such noisiness of thought be so quiet, so pensive, so dolefully sweet? What a beautiful world this is… Sitting and staring at it all, I am in awe… I just had to scream it out as silently as unspoken words would allow...
