I’ve seen these hills before, in memories of tales and half-remembered dreams of ages gone.
A snow-capped snippet of a textbook childhood, immensely tall from shouldered vantage, urging my father faster, higher.
The son becomes the father, but we arrive too late for mine to ride my shoulders. The mountains do not care.
The lives of men flash like ants upon their upthrust shoulders, the full moon strobing eons as these rocks ascend the vault of heaven.
I gaze upon these mountains now, my soul upthrust as any jagged crag. My eyes take in each perfect peak, freckled here and there with snow.
To reach the top! To touch those peaks! My heartbeat pounds as fast as moons by mountain time. Surely, to ascend such beauty must be to caress the crinkled edge of heaven.