I am straddling an upturned root. Rain patters down gently from mumbling clouds, cutting cleanly through thin sheets of shifting fog. It is cold on my skin and lazily painting pictures with each drop on my khaki shorts. A stone's toss away, a waterfall clamors down over moss-caked rock and under abandoned tree limbs. Plants chatter and wave with each sip of water the sky brings them- like some kind of archaic Cheers bar scene. And I have now become part of the conversation as the active listener. Holding tight to my backpack straps and soaking in every story, every detail that I can, I will not leave until I must. The sun is coming slowly, rolling back the shadow deep into the valley where the clouds part- but the plants only chat stronger and louder- one last drink until last call...
But the sun is here now, and the mountainside falls quiet.
But the sun is here now, and the mountainside falls quiet.
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