The Scene- Day 9. - i

The scene is thus.





I am sitting in a rock lined pool. Dark green and brown moss, dead and soaked, cling fiercely to the outcroppings. Behind me, a steady bubble of water burbles and sighs, the only sound in my morning reverie. On my left, huge drifts of snow loom over me, leading further up the embankment to a line of ancient spruce framed by steel sky.





On my right, in the mere, a gently decreasing slope sends water tinkling over smooth slate. The small stream opens up to a series of low pools, steam issuing from warmer spots of water. There is marsh ground about, but it is deeply covered with soft round snow. Low hummocks give way to sparse forests of twisted black spruce that sink into the marsh.



Beyond lie the mountains, at this moment heavily clouded and obscured by snow. But I know the peaks well, having oft gazed at them with a painful sense of awe.



There is finally light enough to write by, and the first chirrups of of birdsong has reached my ears, though dawn is still long in coming. I feel the faint winter breeze. It caresses skin tingling with the soft snow fall; a light shiver works its way down to my toes, even in water warm as blood.



The mountains beckon again, promising me ancient understanding, and the great unknown.



First, the Head. Bold and triumphant, he leaps from the ground to pierce the clouds. A vast cleft divides his peak, narrowing down to a rock face resembling a cave drawing of tiny running men fleeing from a gigantic eagle, swooping down with wings extended over the mountainside. With little difficulty, the scene can also resemble a rib cage, each rock outcropping decreasingly slightly in size and elevation with a proportionality that stops my breath a moment. Steep slopes drop down, forest swiftly thickening at his base.



On his far left, a tiny, perfectly triangular peak I've named the Feet. Less than a third the elevation of the Head, he pops from a gentler west slope, with forests covering all but the very top, revealing rough grey stone.



Behind the Head is the Heart. A thick tapered peak of hard rock is all that is visible, but it is enough; in the morning light, with mist gently billowing skyward, the Heart pulses as a living thing with colors ranging from brilliant orange-pinks to soft gray winter dawns, to a fragile yellow of unspeakable majesty.



Finally, encircling the Head is the Hands. Holding the northeast slope in a gentle embrace, a snow covered, ridged peak encircles partway forward before plummeting to the forested valley.



Today, the mountains are shrouded in clouds, only the predator eagle and his tiny human prey visible through the gloom. Where the forest meets the Head, clouds weave through snow-speckled trees, rising to cover all but the tip of the Feet. Up above, the Heart is barely visible, but for the faintest smudge of rock in the sweep of snow. The Hands are completely hidden in cloud.



As I begin my trek home, my gaze is drawn up to receive the dawn's palette. Hungry eyes are rewarded with swiftly traveling clouds of rose-gray, embracing the valley's peaks before moving north, traveling on invisible currents speeding above me. A higher layer of still, pale blushed-gold fluff spreads across an ice-blue morning. The blue deepens momentarily, then fades to the dark gray of snow clouds.



Finally, just before I retire for my rest, I am stopped dead in my tracks not ten feet from my front door. The Feet is bathed in a pale gold light I can only describe with the pure tones of a vibraphone, ringing in sweet light. The moment stays with a pure clarity in my mind until the darkness of sleep claims me, and pulls me into sweet oblivion.



This is my scene, and my heart pains at the gift of such marvel and splendid tranquility.