The mountain silence closes in on you, shields you from all the noise outside the valley, you sleep till well after sunrise and wake to a blistering brightness on the hillside. Everything looks different this side of civilization, your words come out in new shapes, your tongue twisting around itself like it had discovered something in the wake of its own silence. You begin to believe again in poetry.
I sat underneath the stars late last night, after all the work was done and there was nothing left to do but close the door on the day. The winter skies are different, softer somehow and perpetually bathed in a soft blue tint, with only the brightest stars showing. A bright moon whispered itself across the fields, sweeping shadows across the snow drifts. In the silence, a crack of broken snow crust - one lone deer making its way through the night. We stood listening to each other, wondering if we had anything to run from, but no answer came.
I walked back inside, slept the sleep of a thousand years. There's an answer here somewhere, I know it. An elusive directive from the stardust.
Why else return to dig in the treasure chest
for decades
decades still?
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