On The Mountain

Pine needles carpeted the narrow path and lay strewn on either side of it, up the rise and down the mountain. The drawstring on his hood was drawn tight, leaving the barest amount of his face exposed. The weather was closing in. He could not see the floor of the valley now and the rising mist had thickened. Fat droplets of rain periodically fell out of tree branches all around, making a pattering noise like small, unseen sprites chasing each other around the bases of the trees. Soon it would be snowing, and he was so far from home.

He sat down with his back against an accommodating pine and breathed hard.

A pair of figures emerged slowly from the gathering gloom. They made their way up the road, dark smudges in the mist, seeming to float towards him. He looked. On the shapes came. Still he looked. And the shapes were human and wearing black ski jackets and he heard a voice say: “Dad, are we going soon?”

He stood and wiped the rain from his eyes. He picked up his back pack and followed his daughters down the hill.

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Published in: on August 6, 2012 at 8:22 pm  Leave a Comment  

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