Late yesterday morning, i took Maureen on my walk around my sister’s neighborhood on Signal Mountain.
Although we don’t have the snow my brother has in Vermont, there is an extremely slight chance we will have a dusting before Christmas, some semblance of a white Christmas. Still, it feels like Christmas here. It is damp, cloudy, turning toward cold. On our walk, i not only took the above photo, i felt something strong and wrote about it:
Mist on the Mountain
it was a walk on Signal Mountain several days before Christmas.
foggy, as it quite frequently is this time of year
in a moment
away from the nice homes
not on the brow overlooking the magical world of Chattanooga
down, down, way down below
in the woods
the walk was in the mist
no, not just mist,
clouds settling upon the top of the mountain,
a delicate fabric covering the world of high;
then, i felt them.
they didn’t talk to me, no instruction, no guidance;
it may have been inside of me
but it felt as if they were in the mist,
the mist on the mountain;
this was a favorite time for them:
the trip down the state and east a bit,
Christmas with the family;
laughter, perhaps i heard laughter;
i can’t be sure
i felt them
just as sure as i will feel the warmth of the fire
sitting on the hearth tonight
while the outside will be shrouded
in the magical mist of the mountain.