High upon a mountaintop, struggling in the thin air, I wander toward a precipice to take in the valley below. There two rivers join, both strong and brave. They rage in their frothing spill, white rapids forming, terrible eddies swirling, as they become one.
I’ve been below ere now, swept up in those currents leading down to the sea. I’ve been high, and I’ve been low. Still, I’m cold, and all I want is a breath of air.
The morning mists which danced are gone, spent; the sun will soon descend and paint the skies in brilliant hues and touch the trees in golden rays.
It was not in the seas; it is not on this mountaintop: I am still cold.