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Picture Credits:
The picture is of the small town in which I live, in the foothills of the Canadian Rockies
The Rocky Mountain Range,
so majestic in size,
solid and immovable,
yet fluid and ever-changing.
I am awed by its beauty,
the way the sun reflects off the snow,
making it seem closer than it really is,
a three-dimensional monolith sitting in my own backyard,
sometimes shrouded in clouds,
or resting under the halo of the sun,
while its crevasses hide in the shadows.
At times a mist covers its peaks,
and it is subdued,
as if a veil has been pulled across the landscape.
It becomes distant and one-dimensional,
a flat backdrop at the edge of a rolling prairie.
The sun sets and rises beyond this mighty fortress of rock,
painting a canvass of red, pink and orange,
while the mountain-range sits in silhouette,
dark and foreboding,
as if hiding a secret deep within its walls.
Spring has gently invaded this frozen rock,
and the snow has melted.
The hillsides have turned green,
and palettes of colour dot the meadows.
The mountain-range is alive with movement,
new birth,
struggles for survival,
and death.
The cycle of life is being played out in its bosom,
yet from a distance,
as I survey its silent grandeur,
it appears to be indifferent to the drama taking place within.
While summer penetrates much of this rugged world,
the highest peak is buried in ice year-round,
a giant glacier,
the birthplace of mighty rivers.
I have stood on that glacier
and drank from its cold, clear waters,
as they cascade down ice ditches.
Water so pure,
as if the world is new,
and being touched for the very first time.
A frozen paradise,
a fragile cradle of microscopic life.
I love these mountains.
Their beauty never tires,
and I am content to live in their shadows.
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