My spot of solitude lies still after a fall of fat, flakes of snow, flurries still in the trees as the sun tries to come out, a spot to sit, to listen, observe, without and within, where I can hide in solace and silence, in the mountain air,  in a hidden lair, sitting on the ground, wind and birds the only sound,  and suddenly I’m aware I cannot hold these moments in time, no matter how sublime, they slip away with each passing day and I find myself asking if no matter how many times I come out here, in the end, when I am gone, or just can come no more, will it have mattered that I since a child I went out into the wild?