North Thurston Peak

I touched the sky today.

I stood at the base of the mountains and looked up. The clouds, far above, crashed into the mountain tops. I turned to Amber Tolman and said, “I want to get lost in those clouds.”

She agreed.

Up there the snow was just relinquishing its grip. Among deep drifts, bare dirt exposed the still dormant bushes, bent from the weight of winter. Crouching, I ran my fingers over the first of the green spring shoots that were months behind their valley counterparts. They peeked cautiously through the dead matted grass, unsure of Spring.

Straightening, I raised my arm and ran my fingers through the thick feathery clouds. My hand was in the ceiling of the world.

Around us all was gray or white. The city, four thousand feet below, had faded into the clouds. The mists swirled past us, dancing over the ridge in intricate curving figures, vivid and varied. We were not alone lost in the gray. And though I wanted, we could not remain. We did not belong…we were strangers: travelers exploring a foreign realm.

So we plummeted from the clouds. My legs are so tired now. Of course; I touched the sky today.