Night descends so quickly in the mountains, the light all but running from the looming sentinel of twilight. A last glance, blushed upon the snowy peaks before the enclosed breath chases all thoughts of day into frosted quiet. It is a feeling unlike any, the way the very essence of the sun finds refuge only on the carved mountain faces with their proud noses and stern, unblinking eyes. How the shadows rise up in protest and the trees hold secrets, their silhouettes mysteriously quiet in the engulfing tides. I live in the foothills, the mountains a constant whisper from the West, singing their siren song such that I can never quite not know where the West is. It is my North. So I know, how the prairie sun lingers, painting itself in aching patience upon the rippled clouds. And I know also, how the night comes on as quickly as a grouse startled, taking to flight in that pounding thrum of chilled wings beating, rising up as if the ground were pushing it's dark caved secrets into the air, chasing the day away.
Today was such a day, the moon stealthily climbing above the peaks while I stared enraptured. Her song in my eyes, the light as frail and wondrous as a newborn star.