There is a fragile breath in the air. The crystal sharp bits of light choke me. I am held in their spinning circle. Omnipresent and distant, I cannot be like them. I must hurt when pain comes and laugh when excitement floods my entirety.
Not long ago, dawn was once the most thrilling part of any day. Rays of brilliant colored light on clouds and the strings of jet streams, well before the orb would rise above the range of blue mountains to the east. Watching as more of the sky took in the light, more of the hills lost their dull and somber cloak, for definite shape and shadows. At some point I am forced to look away, and if I can, I try to get to the top of the hollow of home, so I may turn from the sun and take in the light as it first caresses the larger mountains, the more prominent range, to the west. The white glaciers hanging to the rigid sides of Mt Hood, and the wide girth of Mt Adams.
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