A very underrated igneous mountain that no one seems to photograph but me. What could be better. Last night the rain pounded on the roof for hours. I wrapped up in a thick blanket like a sleeping bag and listened, in and out of sleep, waiting, until the rain turned silent and became gentle snow. Sometimes it feels like it’s just me and this mountain that sticks up out of the prairies, and the ravens that come to wonder what I am. That solitude lets me perfectly imagine climbing onto their wings and disappearing into the fog. I can look at it looming from my window while I write, its clouds and valleys become a strange and cold, indifferent sort of friend. But we both have fire inside of us and perhaps this is the common language we can learn to speak.
I woke up and the sky was still that early. very dark blue. Wind blew off the mountain and straight to me, wrapping me in a damp cold, fresh from its top. Then I took pictures as the sun came up and the colors changed from the velvet of indigo and black to ethereal periwinkle, aquamarine, citrine, and rose quartz pink.
