i.
We drove into the mountains at dinnertime
When the sun was beginning her descent
Between the peaks. In the restaurant,
I chose the seat facing high windows
With the view of Mount Kidd, and I set myself
To learn his features. Cliffs piled upon cliffs, sedimentary layers
Dusted with snow. A mountain with a biography of storms.
In spring he will flood the river at his feet, and downstream
It will meet the river that flows through my city.
Now the waiter brings us glasses of water
And a cloud partly hides the summit.
When I sip my wine
The slanting rays of the sun
Break the craggy face into shadows.
Main course
Sees the light fading to purpled blue
Silent forests and snow-loaded cliffs
Gathering the darkness to themselves.
I remember day trips
As a child, how this was the time we left the mountains
Ski trails dimming behind us, car headlights cutting a path
Toward the highway that funneled us
Inevitably toward the lights of the city.
Now, in the soft, fortified luxury of the hotel
I feel almost savage
To stay after dusk, with the audacity
To sleep under the gaze of the mountain.
ii.
At breakfast,
I regain my vigil at the window.
Flurries twist outside
Sun lighting the facets of snowflakes
Like flecks of gold leaf.
Later, we walk the grounds among them
The gusts catching and swinging my skirt.
As the fitful sun comes and goes
I loose a scarf,
Or pull on my mittens,
Tuck a hat into my backpack
or tug it over my ears.
I dance with the elements
Daring the sun to warm me, dazzle
My eyes where she strikes the snow
But always the clouds shift overhead
The air thickens with snowflakes
And we move in a flattened world,
Bereft of the depth of light and shadow.
iii.
At dinner again,
We are back at the window.
Do we feel slightly claustrophobic by this time?
Your mountain is gone,
My husband tells me. It is true.
Where Mount Kidd should loom, layer upon layer of white
Makes a white darkness.
Near the window,
The white shivers into thousands of snowflakes
Water glass, menu, wine glass
We fall into the rhythm of our weekend
Our conversation the melody, while I watch the sky.
Main course,
The clouds never stop moving.
They are the stories we tell,
I say, and the stories we hear.
Always changing
Tricks of perception
Now a stand of forest visible
Now a single tree.
Somewhere out of sight
In the frigid airs of the distant sky
A wind squall opens a portal
Of purest blue.
Now I see a glimpse of the mountain
Wearing a cloud like a woolly scarf
Now the scarf is tossed away.
A cap of white
Rests upon the summit
Tendrils of flurries hang like a veil.
Dessert.
Look, the mountain is back,
I say with satisfaction
I claim this as my personal insight
The mountain was always there.
iv.
We have grown restless, watching the weather.
It seems in sympathy,
Our final day dawns silver and gold and azure
You could throw a stone upward
Into the sky,
And watch it sink forever
Into the achingly blue depths.
We say goodbye to my mountain
At least the side that we were watching,
And drive deep into the valley.
Now mountains leap at us
On every side of the highway
The motion of the car animating the landscape.
The mountains could be austere and cold
Wearing few ornaments of human habitation
But they are alive with memory and anticipation too.
Yesterday's snow dazzles in the forests
And we plunge in like divers
Snowshoes crunching on the veiled earth.
Against the landscape,
We have become story
Movement, a brief improvised dance
For an hour or two.
We are foreground to the mountains' mystery
The woods absorb our conversation
As they have taken in the warmth trails
Of those before us.
When we emerge from the trees
Released again to the highway
The image of the mountain lingers in my mind
Even as the white peaks fade behind me.
Have I left them something in return?
(c) February 2026 Síochána Arandomhan
