only to awaken
The wispy folds of the early morning fog drifts lazily down the sleepingmountainside like a hazy blanket of damp, grey smoke, curling innocentlyaround the trees, slipping quietly into the valley below. The sound of rushingwater filters in as the torrents cut deeply into the steep cliffs high above,carrying with them the soft sighs of time forgotten. The giants sleep beneaththe earth that trembles ever so slightly as they shift, trapped forever in eternalslumber, dreaming of a time when the stars align and the old ones returnfreeing them from the torment of endless dream. The trees whisper of thesethings that man has cast aside as fable and foolish tales from an ignorant hillpeople. The sequoia know it, as do the fir, but they no longer speak to man,deeming him worthless of their knowledge. Still the echoes reverberate insideeach indivdual droplet of mist forming incoherent pictures for those that dareto gaze deeply into the forms as they play out in a swirling dance that's as oldas time itself, and as new as a wobbly legged calf just born. A red sun riseswhere once the moon played sending forth it's warmth, forcing the fog backinto the shadow of night's unblinking eyes. The river grows, widening here,turning there, it's banks are ever hungry and eat away at the tender earth. Thewater brings life to those who inhabit this far off land and all gather at itsshores, casting their nets out, trapping fish to be eaten and dried for winter, orwashing themselves, or merely drinking deeply of its cool refreshment. All lifecomes from here, and all death flows away down to the plains and out to sea tobe reborn as something new. The cycle continues, from death comes birth onlyto die again and be born anew thus is the circle unending. But here amongstthe mountains, their snowcapped peaks, their jagged indifference standing tallagainst the winds and rains designed to break them down, there is comfort. Their strength is immense overshadowed only by their unwavering will tosurvive, to exist. The wind brings a chill through the valley as the seasonsprepare to change. Not even they are immune to cycles, caught in their ownritualistic circle of life and death. For do they not bring both? The spring comesand all creatures give birth to new young, plants and animals alike; summerand the young grow, blooming reaching for the clouds and the golden sunlightthat showers down upon them; fall and life wanes ever so slightly, the leavesturn from green to red and brown, flowers send up desperate shoots for soonwill be the end, animals grow thicker coats; winter arrives with cold breath andchilly hands choking out all green until the ground itself freezes and life is ahard thing to find; then spring once more arrives completing the cycle.