His stance was his opinion on the day. He stood squared and proud, the first to break into the glass. The first to feel the cold. The first to break the seal of his beer on the rocks that were miles away for those who still feared the ice. He was one who had been weak, but now stood strong. He who had hid from fear, now stood before it with a stubborn chin. The Sun and the Wind fell upon him and he embraced them. I wondered what it must be like to stand as he does. Even the mountains leaned over and took interest with curious eyes. People of worth are heard to come by.
Photo by Tyler
She, who cooked and prepared her art for the others, was a natural-born mother. She scoffed often and asked for comfort, but led on with us at the worst without complaint. She read and reevaluated herself and adjusted there by the fire, and again out on the rocks. I found her smiling where I wouldn't have expected. She let nature in. She laughed at the running water and let her boots slide under. She welcomed the cold. It was something she knew she couldn't do, and then she did it well. I could tell her a thousand times, but she wouldn't believe me. She was fucking bulletproof.
In him was a drive that would tear most men limb from limb. Yes, there was a focus too, one that would outlast the glare of the hunting bengal, that watchful eye of the hungry wolf. He saw his hands blister, and told them to harden. He felt his shoulder ache, and told it to quiet. All for our fire. He would wrestle the moon from the stars if he aspired to, but I think he liked them there, and saw greater tasks in his own line of events. He was set to marry, and to start his career, where he'd help people in the most essential way. He was a healer with grit. A medicine man who could go to war but saw the folly in it. The World would be lucky to see more of him.
He feels it most in the forest. The shimmer of the leaves that comes as the breeze kisses his back. His legs at once feel themselves, stretched and flexed and working. He has to climb, has to run, has to see everything he can. He smells, and watches, and breathes deep. His days in the buildings are days asleep. They tell him not to go out too far, they say that he could easily die. But they do not walk on the rocks as he does. They are not willing to listen to the trees. Were it they on this cliff, they would have surely let go, but he hangs on. He lets the sweat drip and he exhales. There is a way off this rock, a way to life. He will not keep himself from the trees simply because they cannot see that these are our greatest gifts.