My Mountains. Morning
coming in ebony soaked with rain and wet grey clouds creep through. It is winter in My Mountains. Old men’s tales and brooding hearths are
steeped in my memory of times long since past.
Times when I was so young that I now wonder did I live it or did a Ronnie
Milsap song place it there. It is
quiet. Coffee on, trees emerge out of
the mist like returning soldiers dragging home and then disappear in the mist
like spirits that didn’t survive. It is
winter and all the woods swim in this grey soup ladled up to see and stirred
back down into the mountain stew. It is
winter. Wife sleeps curled under heavy
cotton, it is so quite that her breathing seems to be what pushes the mist past
our window. Wet winter baths budge hopes
of green springs. It is quiet and winter
has come to me in Mountain Time.
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