mountains all around me. Sometimes they stand stark and white against the sky,
sometimes clouds cover them, but I know they are still there...over there, at
the base of that lake, or behind that line of trees. I wake up one morning and
they’re purple, the next, they are orange.
I walk to the top of one in the springtime, and search for the first flowers. On a small windy ledge, a fuzzy crocus thrives. As I rest, and breathe in the fresh air, I can hear the big lake melting.
Summer hills are pink with fireweed and if I reach the alpine meadow, I might see an elusive woolly lousewort, but not if I rush. Now the days shorten and I am really focussed on the ground beneath me. Blue, and red, it bears the sweet fruit that will make a warm pie on a cold day.
When winter comes, I skate for hours on the bay, gazing at the hills. Some nights I watch the yellow moon rise over the peaks, some nights, the northern lights dance and thrill. I giggle with delight, my head bent to the sky. Then the sun is higher, the day is lighter, I sleep less and the land turns green.
Always a change of scene, just outside my cabin door!