Meadow and Mountain 



the ominous hush between the gusts, herald the gathering 

 storm. The thunder-throated clouds roll their wild anthem 

 across the crest of this serene sentinel between the plains. 

 Every unsheltered boulder is dismantled of its debris and 

 dust. For a little space havoc has reigned among the hills. 

 But the clouds are falling apart like a garment burnt to 

 ashes by the flame. They scurry down the long slopes like 

 black beasts to their lair. Silence and sunshine take the 

 place of the din and darkness, and I, amid bewildering beauty, 

 am glad with unwonted joy that I, for once, have wooed and 

 won this high hazard of the mountains and the hills. 



It was worth a high climb toward the moon to witness 

 that storm on the mountain. It was nature's apocalypse. 

 It was a kind of Angelo's "Last Judgment" frescoed on the 

 skies. It was like a mighty military masquerade of the 

 grim warriors of the world come to do battle for the ages. 

 But when the clouds were drifting from the mountains, and 

 the radiant mantle of morning was flaming up the stairways 

 of the hills, it was a sight to hold the heart with eternal 

 memories. This pageantry of storms and morning on the 

 mountain was worth a trip across the world to see. 



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