With snow falling on blue spruce and a cardinal at the feeder and the fireplace’s crackly warmth easing into your bones and the final pages of a book about bears and the opening pages of a book about monks and no plans for the morning, the afternoon, the evening, tomorrow, next week, the rest of your life.
With ancient mountains all around and an ancient mountain beneath you and the climb still burning your legs and clouds building on the horizon, a storm coming for sure, but you’ve got time, you and your best friend, plenty of time to fire up the stove and brew a strong pot and trade sips back and forth while two golden eagles circle, circle, circle the summit, never once flapping their wings.
