Evening Post, January 8, 2015

You have to get there just at dawn, just when the white mist rises off the river on a warm winter day and filters up through the bare oaks and hickories on the steep mountainside and rolls up the sandstone outcropping and carries with it the scent of the river mud and the damp stone and the rotting leaves and the green moss on the tree trunks. That is the magic time when the air and the scent of the air are just as they were a thousand years ago. Just as it was on the day of creation. There are many winters that pass without such a morning. But if you are lucky enough in time and if you stand at the edge of the rock face and wait long enough for your head and lungs to fill, you will know something of the ancient day and feel as if you could fly.

copyright 2015

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