No more rain that day, and they were thankful after having waded through swollen streams, marched through mud, carried the mountain on their boots.
They knew mountains, and they knew themselves. How they could last now, yet another mountain looming before them. They would climb it and think more of the mountain than themselves. It was their secret way to go on.
Measured steps, over boulders and clouds, and once in awhile they stopped to see valleys, all things below in fog, mist and memory, catch glimpses of wreckage where some failed early on, where bones slept, who knows, maybe some of their own bones bleached white by time, by storms.
There is a song the wind sings across white bones. Better not to listen but go on, go on, go on, careful of wet loose dirt. It is so easy to slide and fall.
One must believe each step has life itself inside it, that steps must go on, in mist after the rain, always unsure what lies ahead, but aware how essential the pace of it is, the spirit, a kind of song the mountains have always sung in silence.
Christopher Woods is a writer and photographer who lives in Chappell Hill, Texas. He has published a novel, THE DREAM PATCH, a prose collection, UNDER A RIVERBED SKY, and a book of stage monologues for actors, HEART SPEAK His photographs can be seen in his gallery -http://christopherwoods.zenfolio.com/ . His photography prompt book for writers, FROM VISION TO TEXT, is forthcoming from PROPERTIUS PRESS.