Where there is water, life is not far away; evidenced by dull patches of greenery; the flora that has climbed so high to see, or has held on since such ancient times that it has known the mountain when it was just ground, and risen at such a rate one would term an eternity
Would that it have been once marsh, wold, or forest, it matters not now, because that is past, and forward is the pinnacle of being, climbing ever-skyward, and distant clouds remember their relatives - the receding seas - the ice floats and glaciers, and even those unseen cousins, hanging on the air.
In a moment's digression, disparate dispersion, he returns to thought, having shared all with the One who he knows no bounds for. On this mountain, in this place, of this moment. This is where I have been for as long as I've been writing these words.
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