Among the Mountains

The mountains do not rise—
they reign.
Not with cruelty,
but with a quiet knowing
that outlasts
every name
we’ve ever given them.

I walk into their shadow
and feel smaller
in the most magnificent way.
Like I’ve been invited
into the sanctuary of something
older than sorrow,
stronger than fear.

Their silence
is not empty.
It is full—
of wind-drawn wisdom,
of stories etched in stone,
of time itself
stacked in layers
of shale and snow.

The air is different here.
Sharper.
Clearer.
As though truth lives
closer to the surface.

And I breathe it in
like gospel.
Like something sacred
I forgot I was part of.

Every curve,
every peak,
every echoing call
of raven or elk
reminds me—
this is not a place.
It is a presence.
A cathedral of the earth
where even my silence
feels like worship.

Among the mountains,
I remember myself—
not as a burden,
not as a body,
but as spirit.
As breath.
As one small note
in a symphony
of stone.