I lie quietly on the mountaintop. It’s not Everest. It’s not even very high. In my youth I might have scaled a taller peak. I might have dared the elements and shouted down at the world. Now I am content to snuggle in my sleeping bag with no fire. THiws peak is high enough to prove nothing.
Occasionally a falling star momentarily lights the sky. I’m still wearing my glasses to that I can see them. With each flash I am reminded of some person who I once knew. Some have just drifted into other orbits. Some have passed in a flash to the great unknown. Most of them would have laughed at me huddled in a sleeping bag peeking out at the night world.
The wind blows cold tonight. I like the cold wind. It whispers to me that time is short. It whispers with a low groan as if it is trying to turn over in its sleep. I know the wind doesn’t sleep.
A meteor streaks from west to east. I remember a friend who died in
I hear a diesel engine thundering against the grade hauling commerce toward some market. Wish I’d been on this spot when steam whistles broke the stillness. The plaintive wail would have made me feel alive. I once sat at a tunnel and felt the train just before it roared out of the opening like a cosmic mad birth.
The sky just winks at me. No it doesn’t. It just looks the same. Thirty years and the sky is the same. The mountain is the same. Only I have changed. No more meteors to light my way. I scrunch into the bag deeper. The wind is colder than it used to be.