Sitting in mountain shade, out of the warming sun, above where the great plains wane and foothills rise to greet a setting moon over a snowcapped divide, there’s a chill in the breeze, yet, the sun is warm. I sit on rocks amidst pines with twisted evergreen branches, alive together, in air that feels crisp, clean and fresh, amongst rounded, wrinkled boulders, above where the Arapaho wintered, out of the high mountains deep snows and away from the high plains winds. I am just sitting in the still, in the silence, between plain and mountain, where I can see both, either the beginning of both or the end, I’m not sure which. I’m feeling cold now in the shade and breeze, it tingles in my fingertips, and yet though warmth waits just near me in the sun, I stay, enjoying the chill, eying the snowcapped peaks to the west. They keep me here. I look to the east and feel a roaring in its immense, open distances. I look to the west, and feel a soaring in its rugged, inspiring heights. I am content.