Slope

I got the timing just right once.

The rising sun was shedding russet and gold all about the leaves of the trees standing sentinel on either side of the road, and the hues echoed infinite off the trunks and the pavement. From this high vantage point that I passed through so frequently, always so preoccupied, the world looked swathed in welcoming warmth. It rolled and washed and glowed in a way that I did not expect, that I did not know was possible.

I lean against the wind, pretend that I am weightless

I had never before seen such a vivid, panoramic play of color. Elsewhere the yawning air was frigid and hostile, but here on this side of the mountain, summer had somehow stopped in for a minute and left its soft and teasing touch. Oh, but it was warm. It was warm and sweet, regal yet unassuming. It was an instance of flawless serenity from a lost time–and I an embarrassed, anachronistic interloper on the descent.

And in this moment, I am happy

I drive down this mountain every morning, and back up every night. At night, the myriad scattered lights below resemble miniature galaxies, and you feel as though you’re at the top of the world. But there was something more special still in the glory of this particular dawn, when I was not even searching for it. And I am not sure I will ever be graced by it again.

I wish you were here

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