SPRING 10        

shifting fog spreads softly before the moonlight, amidst the limbs of fir trees, the frozen waters of a lake, the jaggedness of a mountain skyline. at 4000m (12000ft), i am camped on a platform carved out of the snow bank of a small lake under the looming dominion of Truchas Peak. no, i am cocooned in the silvery white floating cap of a great magician...

[it has been a tough hike in miles of rotten snow and i sense sharply the danger of the trap i have set for myself—at the moment, there is only a wry smile of achievement on my face, only the wonder of this night in my eyes.]

the brew of a storm in the far distance. so announced and yet so sudden: the swirling wind, the screech of thunder, the blasts of white light. [i have shaken myself out of this dream and secured my gear. an emergency blanket is at hand but not a raindrop will come down.] then the stillness, then the silence—while the skyline is whipped in more lashes of gold. and the great magician's cap re-envelops a shaken night.

a whisp of fresh air...high above, sunrays pierce through—setting the peak's crown alight with a more enduring brand of gold.

[i still have to get out of this rotten trap...]