This Mountain

originally untitled

By Wil C. Fry, July 29, 1999

Copyright © 1999 by Wil C. Fry. All rights reserved.

breathtaking is the only way to describe the view stretching
below us, outward from the lush and leafy slope beneath our
the verdant hills are alive with the creation of the benevolent
creator, the germs the insects the spiders the rodents the mammals the
the cycle of life goes on here, eating and being eaten, and only
the strongest live on to create another generation that will call this
this mountain, this pile of rock and dirt and foliage, overseen by
birds of prey; an eagle a vulture a robin a sparrow a crow a
crumbling shale and granite and sandstone mashed together and
eroding just enough to contour into beauty unblemished, perfect and
untamed are these lands, far from the hue and cry of mechanical men
who have surrounded themselves with burnished steel, concrete and
living air conditioned lives with stereophonic sound and a myriad of
devices with which to keep the wildlife away, lighting the night, blocking the
from their towers of ignorance and comfortability they no longer can
see the rosy orange and purple glow of the sunís diluted light streaming through
as that great ball of light and heat and life rolls on through her charted course
and falls beneath the horizon; the emerald and hazy horizon farther than we can
perched on our ledge, our shelf of shelter underneath the overhanging crags
and cliffs yet far above the treetops that reach up to us, straining from lower
the ground that is carpeted with pine needles fallen leaves animal dung gravel
that has fallen from the heights where we sit and feel mother earth breathing around
that mother who gives us life, every one, who nurtures us, feeds us, clothes us
and strains to protect us and to teach us how to care for her, for she is now growing
and weary, her resources growing shallow, and her immense immune system growing frail
against the onslaught of human stupidity; teach us, O mother, that we may
old that she is, we still feel her strength the wisdom the power the glory of
an age that has all but passed us by; and in the twilight of this night we love
and we love each other, holding on to pitiful handholds, clinging to one another
on the side of this outcropping of stone, knowing that we cannot stay but wishing we
how long will we remember this moment? how far away will our short and
useless lives carry us from this place of serenity? and have we now become
the roads of man are invisible to us now, and their dwellings are smaller than
the toys of an impudent child who has scattered them out, losing them in the
the sky the sunset the clouds the haze the rocks the trees the birds the leaves
the creatures of night are stirring, smelling, watching, waiting for us to

After visiting Mount Magazine, highest point in Arkansas, with K.L.M., the previous day.

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