Somehow a tree with golden leaves grows right beyond the fence. There is not another one around closer than you could walk in a day—at least, I have not found one.
This is the light that makes me feel the oldest, first born beyond time when the mountain was my brother and we roared into being.
Then the wind blew us apart.
Gold illuminates memories that otherwise sit without form in the furthest shadows.
Feeling the warmth each day brings more scattered pieces back together until we are no longer mountains or people
but birds.