Wildflower Mountain

That's the whisper that I heard anyway. On those gentle southerly winds; down from the summit.

Blues, pinks, yellows, whites, purples.

Two Eastern Whipbirds chase each other through the ferny scrub and a few Black Cockys glide above distant gums.

It's unexpected, but I stood there sobbing for a moment. Something about the beauty of it all. It touches the same tenderness that my recent Vision Quest reopened for me.

"What is it about spending so much time alone in the mountains?"

My eyes glisten. Or at least I feel them do.

How to answer such a question.

On the peak the wind ain't so gentle anymore. It's not my first saunter up here. Last time the entire summit was covered in white roaring blankets. Cloud Mountain.

The many names and faces.

So it is with the wild rhythms of these seasons.

I've often seen Grey Fantails flitting about. A couple of them danced in the air right in front of my face on my last birthday. It was just after I spent a few minutes speaking aloud my gratitudes. A magic moment. Few tears then too.

No Fantails this time though. Strong winds. No bugs. Hard to fly. Maybe.

I think I'm a stone man. I've got a thing for granite boulders. By the river. On the side of mountain. Standing sparse on green rolling hills. Ancient pillars of dense crystallized light. They’ve seen a thing or two.

I grew up by the ocean, but something about the mountains feels more like home.

Crystal clear rivers. Rainbow trout. Fallow deer. Birdsong. Snowy gums and waterfalls. Stillness.

I dream that I’m riding horseback through the highlands; a multi-day expedition through the wilderness. Except I’m not much of a horserider. And I ain’t got no horse. It’s a nice image regardless.

I let the dreaming roll on.

Who knows what the future brings.