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The Present of Presence

These Mountains, these Gorges. They don’t speak to just anybody. Some of us are in too much of a hurry to listen. Some of us are too self-absorbed to see. Some of us leave trash behind, disrespectful of our place. But these Mountains, these Rivers, surely they speak kindly to those who notice the way lichens shine silver after a rain. Who are entranced by the pattern of leaves against sky. Who appreciate the light, sweet fragrance of sourwood blossoms. And heat held in rock. Or the song of a blue-eyed vireo. Or the mouth-watering tang of a sourwood leaf. Or the shush of water sliding down a cliff face, the graceful arc of a fern frond, the emerald gleam of droplets dangling from leafy liverwort at the edge of a waterfall, the way wind always rises in certain places. To those who will slow down to listen, who notice beauty deeper than picturesque scenery, this land does speak. Do you hear it? ~K