Sitting alone in the Colorado Rockies with my mind free of its usual constraints, imagination took over; and I penned the following:
What is it about the mountains? A mountain stream gurgling, rushing as if in a hurry to reach some destination far below where I sit watching, listening, relishing. I could sit here beside this stream for hours, days even - a stream babbling life and serenity to anyone who will hear. Even so, I would be remiss if I failed to mention that I'm not really alone here. There are others enamored by the mountain's beauty. Other humans, yes of course, but I speak of flies and mosquitoes. By all appearances, these Rocky Mountains are a hot vacation spot for them as well - along with not a few ant families. Because of this, my hour here will not stretch into days lest my body become the feasting ground for these tiny campers. . . but perhaps they aren't vacationers. Perhaps this is their homeland, and I've invaded it - a massive alien to them. Perhaps a cry has gone forth in warning. Perhaps these flies that can't leave me alone as I sit quietly are scouts sent to check me out and bring back word of what they find. Am I friend or foe? I'm afraid that I will be counted as a foe for I've killed at least five flies and a couple mosquitoes. Then again, perhaps the five I've killed were members of a marauding gang of bandits that had terrorized this peaceful colony for too long and I have now, unwittingly, become their heroine.
What is it about the mountains? A mountain stream gurgling, rushing as if in a hurry to reach some destination far below where I sit watching, listening, relishing. I could sit here beside this stream for hours, days even - a stream babbling life and serenity to anyone who will hear. Even so, I would be remiss if I failed to mention that I'm not really alone here. There are others enamored by the mountain's beauty. Other humans, yes of course, but I speak of flies and mosquitoes. By all appearances, these Rocky Mountains are a hot vacation spot for them as well - along with not a few ant families. Because of this, my hour here will not stretch into days lest my body become the feasting ground for these tiny campers. . . but perhaps they aren't vacationers. Perhaps this is their homeland, and I've invaded it - a massive alien to them. Perhaps a cry has gone forth in warning. Perhaps these flies that can't leave me alone as I sit quietly are scouts sent to check me out and bring back word of what they find. Am I friend or foe? I'm afraid that I will be counted as a foe for I've killed at least five flies and a couple mosquitoes. Then again, perhaps the five I've killed were members of a marauding gang of bandits that had terrorized this peaceful colony for too long and I have now, unwittingly, become their heroine.
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