A Fool on the Hill

 I didn’t make it to all the way to the Falls. Was within half a mile or so before time ran out. Someone turned out the lights on the great painting in the sky.

I still found some green and blue peace and more. I found a vision and learned how certain cameras can not handle what comes out of that great painting in the sky. One has to prepare for such things and I didn’t. Next time.

How strange that Nature does not knock, and yet does not intrude! — Emily Dickinson, letter to Mrs. J.S. Cooper, 1880

I only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in. — John Muir, 1913.

The Blue Ridge Mountains, Virginia

Walking, climbing, gazing at groups of trees, rocks, hillsides and mountain peaks. Parsing them. Separating them and putting them back together again, so they existed alone and together. As one and as many. Stopping to take a picture broke that flow, that chain. But with the great painting surrounding me, it was easy to find again. Finding no one, I was selfish. I wanted no one there with me. I wanted to be one with the painting. Alone. No one to interrupt the flow. No one to inject noise, commotion, angst.

And how should a beautiful, ignorant stream of water know it heads for an early release – out across the desert, running toward the Gulf, below sea level, to murmur its lullaby, and see the Imperial Valley rise out of burning sand with cotton blossoms, wheat, watermelons, roses, how should it know? — Carl Sandburg, Good Morning America, 1928.

Sunset on the Blue Ridge

Before the leaves peak, before the leaves fall, I’ll be back. The sun will be higher, my camera will be steadier, and no filters will be needed. Climb up with more certainty. I’ll climb up with more time or negate time altogether. No rush, no worries, and more sights and sounds to match my memory, to match my hope and create something new.

 A tree has arisen. O pure transcendence!
O Orpheus sings! O tall tree in the ear
And all is still. Yet in the stillness   
New beginnings, sacred calls spring change

— Rainer Maria Rilke. Sonnets to Orpheus.



A Fool on the Hill
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