I could see the mountain outside my window from where I was sitting. The sun was already down.
As the light faded, the only cloud in a hundred miles rested peacefully on the peak. Slowly, imperceptibly, as the whites turned to blues and grays, it settled lower and lower in the cooling air, obscuring the outline of the summit. Flocks of black and white magpies flew by in the twilight like misplaced parrots. It was like watching an inverted jungle.
(You don’t live here day by day, it’s minute by minute. I could learn a lot if I would only listen.)
This morning, in a coffee shop, I saw an immortal six-foot tall teenage girl wearing boots with stiletto heels. God is laughing at me. This evening my wife showed me a picture someone had taken of her after a performance. My neck wattle was in the picture too, off to the left. No wonder I have to walk more slowly when the wind blows. It isn’t fair that I look like a half-melted wax Yorkshireman. Genetics is a bitch, but aging is hell.
The fog on my summit seeps into my bones. I need sunlight and flowers. Who knows what goes on, down below the rocks?
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