J
ust as the tip of the plane inched upwards, the smooth wings swayed, and I sunk into my seat. Close on the horizon against a leveled earth––sprung within a swirling cone of orange clouds––stood one, lonely mountain blanketed with snow and splattered with bolstering pines. It reminded me of a bald eagle––the white beacon that pierced the sky where the smog cut from yellow to orange to blue to deep, dazzling space hanging. Even above the roaring turbines, I caught the mountain’s whispering cry. Wind, as it were––deflected by trees, curled by tall rock, warmed by yawning rays—assumed the role as carrier of the mountain’s will. The plane shook. And maybe, the eagle and the wind and the mountain and I were not separate, but cogs clicking, shifting, ticking among a much larger machine. For a moment, I imagined the tongue of the earth––the voices of eagle and pine. v
Woodberry Forest School
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