At the end of the highway, at the base of the mountain, the road narrows to one lane curving into the canyon, wrapped in tree canopy, watched by violent cliffsides, shooting into the sky. Suddenly, after climbing countless switchbacks, the road explodes into a scenic turn, millenia in the making, ten-thousand foot mountains emerging jagged and carpeted from the depths of the earth, jig-sawing themselves against each other, pausing in the turns to take deep breaths of high-altitude air.
We pass the peak, roll back down narrow sweeps of asphalt, brushing up against aspen tides connected by one single root, millenia in the making, everything quakes and tingles. It feels like it's the first day of a thousand new days, like you turned a corner and was finally excited to see what you might find there, after years of fearing what might come around the bend.
August coils itself behind you, tucks in its hands and feet and rests in its accomplishments. You have no notes, nothing but gratitude. In the car on the way down, he says the end of the dream is hitting me in the form of stressing about retirement, and you only know what he means in theory. The dream still remains with you in your pocket, silent, biding its time, reminding itself through you by little nibbles along your side. You wake restless.
The sun sets behind the mountains, your table laden with drinks and swills of writing, unfinished stories stretching their limbs and asking what comes next. You're not quite sure the answer, but you're beginning to get a sense.
You're not quite sure the answer,
but you look forward
to finding it out.
