Owl's Nest, Adirondacks, NY.
Weather is coming in, I can feel the humidity in the air, in my joints. The forecast is for overcast and snow, but the blue is only just starting to fill in, feelers ahead of the weather. The damp chill that penetrated all my layers when I began is back again, now that I've stopped and am no longer moving against gravity. I've come up Owl's Nest countless times, the panorama from here never disappoints. While some summits have an alien feel, this one always feels comforting, welcome. It's in the slight breeze gliding through the needles of the white pines, in the granite of familiarity underfoot. I look out to the peaks of Cascade and Porter to my left, the ridgy hulk of Pitchoff to my right, and the gap between them that ushers in that breeze. I trace their lines against the sky, like I would trace notes across an imaginary score. Up here, it's a melody of silence, the quiet of solitude. And in the absence of sound, I begin to dream the pitch of a voice, the one I hear all day, within me. As it rises and falls, it’s inflections are music, and I love the tone as well as the content. If I had a song of you, it would be of words you said, random phrases that wrapped around my heart, like the curl of the clef on that sheet of music. Words that come to me as I walk, in a thousand mountains, along countless rivers and streams, in forests, deserts, and oceans. Words I answer inside, in a counterpoint that only I hear. I close my eyes, and think of yours, and the way they punctuate the sound of your voice. And when they open, the song is still there, waiting to begin again.