Shivering houses crowd the mountain like scree, huddled close as if to draw heat from its ancient magma-roots. Their grey-brown sides and snow-capped roofs ripple out like weak echoes of the mountain itself, frail and deliberate compared to the crags looming overhead. Icicles of light pierce the houses as the wintry sun burrows into the western hills, it too seeking shelter from the cold, crystalline sky.
And then--just before darkness and ice envelop it all--the windows catch fire. The flames race from pane to pane, and for the briefest moment I am warm.
No comments:
Post a Comment