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  • There are two pictures from the hike yesterday that each show something different from the other.
    In one, you stand alone, small and almost apologetic against the backdrop of rock, mountain and vista of ocean and sky. The first dusting of snow had found its way into the crevices and made a pattern that mimicked the cloud cover of the earth, as seen from space.
    In the other picture, the camera moved in closer, and your stance is confident, not hesitant. You stand like a conqueror, or, at the very least, a middle manager. You stand like it was your idea that we hike yesterday, and not today when the temperature has plunged like you said it would.
    One day makes a difference, but either day would have given us the empty parking lot at the foot of the trail.

    People are leaving for Mexico, California, the Caribbean, chasing color and warmth but perhaps they are loosing the metaphor that is exposed on the skeletal trees, for those of us who remain.

    I realize that is me, not you, spinning these interpretations of the day, on your posture, and the indifferent earth.
    It was me all day that was in a hurry and late to start, then late to go and then late again.
    It was me who was scurrying about the surface of things trying to make sense of my location, fix my cardinal point. I had to be here at this time, and then there and then there. I was late, late, late all day.
    You stood and looked out, like you had wanted to, like you were there for that moment. You knew that it dwelled at the top of the mountain, and you left with what you had expected to find.
    It is me who is still filtering through the data, trying to ascribe meaning to the difference between two moments, when a cloud passed over the sun.
    In my mind I am still climbing that mountain and I cannot, yet, find the top.
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