The mountains hide many things. Secrets that its people hid, tragedies of lesser minds, the blood of Indians, old scotch bottles. These relics decay in the old mines and glens, in tumbled down ruins, and under the stones left behind from foundations.
Stumbling on the slopes, scratching against rough tree bark, catching yourself on a vine, you walk over graveyards, you walk with ghosts. The mountains have guided more than you to forget all else but the birdsong, so realize how strong you are, how much stronger you could be in your ideal world.
People want to know what the deal is with the fog that blocks out our fingers held in front of our noses. Nothing is up with it. It exists, like the bones of a deer or oyster mushrooms you chance across.
You hunt for the horns of the stag like the aimless bullet that felled it and the seeming trajectory of fellow lives. You cook the mushrooms in butter and eat them with white wine and your lover under a moon that never crests the mountains.
In the whispering dusk when the bottle is empty and you have touched the weeping ground, when you have feasted on the creamy face of your soulmate, you write. Only none of the stories belong to you. You stole them.
You stole them from mute lips.
Photo by Jared Subia on Unsplash
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