A bitterly cold wind weaves its story through black spruce forest. Crumpled alders sag beneath the weight of last year’s snow, their bowed heads acknowledging winter’s toll.
Footsteps crackle sharply on crystalline snow, echoing against the early morning chill. It will be hours before there is skylight at the crack between the mountain ridgeline and dawn.
Music insists, and Macklemore’s “Can’t Hold Us” reverberates, rocking the upward climb- even though it’s only in my head.
Stress fractures in my foot whisper nonsense quickly shushed. This is physical. This is therapy. This is alder-bashing fade to alpine.
Vernal equinox in the Far North is a raven’s laugh, reminiscent of Spring’s gentler touch somewhere far from here.
Today, I am confident that The Dark is a mirage. Fata Morgana. I could map its topography, geography; trace its lines in my face. Or not.
* * *
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Dancing with Dragons
Don't Gank my Junk, Yo
Element 22 by Ti Conkle is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.