I want to go to the mountains.
By Summer or Winter,
I’d escape to a log cabin,
not far from the town that bustles below
(but far enough to see it all from my balcony,
or the steps on my porch),
faintly whirring with life by evening,
an orange glow from softly-lit streets,
in the haunches of rock and god-like awe.
Not looming, but beckoning,
daring me to scale its walls,
stand atop its barrier
and see for miles that complex scape;
a skyline forged by inner strife,
and carved by weather’s temper.
In the town I’d sit with locals,
drinking coffee by day and beer by night,
relishing the dizziness of thinner air,
and shuffling home by moonlight.
Smiling as I bury my head in a feather pillow,
I remember the girl, smiling too, behind the bar.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll buy her dinner.