"It's the wind," he told me,
"nothing more."

But I'd heard the voice,
deep and resonant and beckoning.
I could not make out all the words…

"Wind," he repeated.

…but could tell–
just by the tone–
it's old, wise, weary.

"The mountain has no voice,
and you have an overactive imagination."

It spoke again,
raising the hair on my arms,
shivering along my spine,
tousling my hair.
"He's wrong," it said.

Text and image © 2014 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.