Writing #3

There comes a slow roll of thunder. It's a longing. It's the separation of the flash and the meaning, one chasing the other. Looking up, the rain falls down. Mountain laurel cups fill and pour. Fill and pour. A fountain of youth, only in the sense that most of it flutters to the ground soon and never grows old. My hat brim vibrates continuously from rain as I look out from underneath down into the valley. I grew up here. The other side of the ridge I know nothing about. I stand on the crest, riding a slow, crumbling wave that only the clouds will see break. What's the point of climbing a mountain when you have to turn around at the top? It's the struggle. It's all about the struggle. Sweetness is defined by the struggle and sweat measures it. There's no chairlift to enlightenment. I stand on the crest and look down the valley. I stand at the top with nowhere left to turn. It's time to go home.